Daoud stared down at his hands, which seemed very large as they lay in
his lap. "Yes, master." Those kindly velvet-black eyes seemed to draw
speech out of him. "If God loves the compassionate, how can he look with
favor upon the warrior, who wounds and kills?"
Saadi's turbaned head lifted. His grizzled beard thrust forward, and his
eyes grew round and serious. He looked, Daoud thought, like a
thoroughbred steed pricking up his ears to a trumpet call.
"I say to you, Daoud, and to Gamal and to all of you--the work of a
warrior is a holy calling. When the Prophet Muhammad, may God bless and
salute him, began to teach, he did not want the believers to be men of
the sword. But the pagans beat those who went to hear him, and they
would not let him teach. And so he learned that a true man of God must
go forth with the Book in one hand and the sword in the other."
Daoud felt a warm pride in his chest. He was not a despicable slave. He
would one day be a warrior, in a way a holy man, like Saadi, who helped
spread the teachings of God.
_But I am an unbeliever._
He listened for the Frankish voices in his mind crying out against the
Saracens, against the devilish religion of the one they called Mahound.
But the voices were silent.
A pale boy with a grave face asked, "If God made man, how can He love
one who butchers His creatures?"
Sheikh Saadi raised an admonishing finger. "The Warrior of God is no
butcher. He strikes with sorrow and compassion. He hates evil, but he
loves his fellow men, even the one he fights against. The Warrior of God
is known, not by his willingness to kill, but by his willingness to die.
He is a man who would give his life for his friends."
Saadi went on to speak of other things, but Daoud's mind remained fixed
on the words "Warrior of God."
Ever since the day the Saracens carried him off, he had lived without a
home. He had drunk from gold cups in the palace of Baibars, had seen
that a Mameluke might rise to earthly glory. But such rewards fell to
only one in a thousand. For the rank and file, the life of a Mameluke
was a hard one, often ending in early death.
Lately Baibars had sent him to live with the other Mameluke boys in
training on the island of Raudha in the Bhar al-Nil, the river Nile.
Every morning, when he woke to the rapping of the drill master's stick
on the wooden wall of his sleeping shed, his first feeling was anguish.
Sometimes he prayed before sleeping that he might not wake up again.
Only when he journeyed twice a week, by boat and on foot, to sit at the
feet of Saadi, did he feel any peace.
But what if God had chosen him to be a Mameluke? Then it was a blessed
life, a holy calling, as Saadi had said. There was a world beyond this
one, a place the Koran called a "Heavenly Home." All men, Christian and
Muslim, believed that. As a warrior he could hope that his hardship
would be turned to joy in that Heavenly Home. In that world, not one in
ten thousand, but every good man, would dwell in a palace.
Absorbed in his own thoughts, he heard the soft, deep voice of Saadi as
one hears the constant murmur of the windblown sand in the desert. The
boys around him and the men who came and went in the Gray Mosque--all
were believers. As a warrior of God he could be part of that, and not
the least part. He would no longer be fil-kharij, a stranger in this
world. He would be fil-dakhil, at home.
The lesson was over. The boys stood with Saadi and bowed their heads in
prayer. After the prayers they bowed again to their teacher and, alone
or in pairs, pattered out of the courtyard of the Gray Mosque.
When they were all gone, Daoud stood alone facing Saadi.
"What does Daoud have to say to me?"
In a rush of love for his master, Daoud threw himself to his knees and
struck his forehead on Saadi's red carpet, bumping his head hard enough
to be slightly stunned.
"What is it, Daoud?" Saadi's voice was a comforting rumble.
Daoud sat back and looked up. The figure of the Sufi towered over him.
But Saadi bent his head, and looking into the dark face, Daoud felt as
if someone huge and powerful had taken him into his arms.
"Master, I want to embrace Islam."
* * * * *
Daoud was mentally repeating the salat for the third time when he heard
footsteps and the click of hooves coming up the road. He shut his eyes
to resist the distraction.
A voice interrupted the fourth repetition. "Peace be unto you, Signore.
Can you tell me if there is room at the sign of the Capo di Bue for my
son and me and our donkey?"
Daoud was annoyed at having to stop his prayers, but he had to reply or
call unwanted attention to himself. He opened his eyes and saw in the
shadows before him a short man with a full white beard holding the reins
of a donkey that breathed heavily and shifted its feet nervously on the
great black paving stones of the Appian Way. A second figure, obscure in
the darkness, sat on the donkey. The two seemed heavily dressed for
summer. The bearded man wore a round black hat with a narrow brim, of a
type Daoud had never seen before.
"It is not overly full," he said impatiently.
But the man with the black hat still stood before him. "Are you sure
that we will be welcome, Signore?"
"You can pay for a place in the common bed, can you not?" said Daoud,
eager to finish the prayer.
"Oh, we do not require a bed, Signore," said the old man. "We will sleep
in the stable, or sit up"--he chuckled--"or even sleep standing up, as
our donkey does. It is just that we cannot go farther tonight. Rome has
more robbers than a dog has fleas."
Why in the name of God was the man so hesitant? Daoud, seeing no need to
continue the conversation, remained silent.
The old man sighed. "Peace be to you, Signore," he said again. "Come, my
son."
The man's son climbed down, and the two travelers pulled the donkey
through the inn's gate. Leather packs hung from either side of the
donkey, and Daoud wondered what was in them. Probably nothing of value,
but robbers would attack anyone who looked vulnerable, and the old man's
fear was doubtless justified.
Daoud thought of the precious stones he and Celino carried between
them. He felt the cold breath of danger on the back of his neck.
_Here in this inn they may all be honest men, but if they knew what
wealth we had, even honest men would try to cut our throats._
He turned his mind again to his prayers. By the time he finished and
turned to go through the gate leading to the courtyard, he sensed a
change in the noises from within. Shrill, angry voices had replaced the
cheerful murmur of general conversation.
The donkey and the boy who had ridden it huddled in the corner where the
stables met the main building.
Daoud stood listening in the center of the inn yard, his hand resting
lightly on the dagger at his belt. He faced the two-story main building,
the dining hall at ground level, the beds that slept six or more
upstairs. Access to the sleeping room was by way of a flight of outside
wooden stairs leading to a platform and an upper door. The doors and the
window shutters on both levels were open to let in the cool night air.
Stables secured with half doors on his left, a storage shed on his
right.
As Daoud strode past the old man's son, he caught a glimpse of bright
black eyes reflecting the light from oil lanterns hung on wooden pegs
set high on either side of the inn door.
Daoud moved to the doorway, and as he looked into the smoky, candlelit
hall, his heart sank.
The crowd of men and women in the room were turned toward Lorenzo
Celino. He stood against the far wall, the long blade of his sword
gleaming in the candlelight, facing six naked daggers.
Beside Celino, the hound Scipio stood stiff-legged, tail whipping from
side to side, fangs bared, growling softly. Fear of that dog was keeping
Celino's opponents back as much as fear of his sword, thought Daoud.
The bearded old man who had spoken to Daoud was standing to Celino's
left and a little behind him. Celino's eyes flicked toward Daoud for an
instant, and then quickly away before anyone might notice that he had
looked toward the doorway.
Daoud scanned the room for Sophia. She was standing in the shadows,
almost invisible in a long, hooded cloak. No one was threatening her.
One of the men facing Celino, Daoud recognized, was the innkeeper
himself. He was a huge man with broad, rounded shoulders and a shock of
thick black hair cut off at the same length all the way around, so it
looked like a bowl. The dagger he held was a long, murderous blade, but
his big hand made it look like a toy.
"Give us the Jew," the innkeeper said to Celino. "We have no quarrel
with you."
The old man was a Jew? How was it, Daoud demanded of himself, that these
people had known that and he had not?
"You do have a quarrel with me," said Celino, "because I do not care to
see you torment and rob this old man."
Daoud swore to himself. Was this the kind of madman Manfred had yoked
him with? Sworn to the utmost secrecy, carrying a fortune in jewels, and
now he brings a whole inn down around his ears by defending some dusty
old man?
_But does not God love the compassionate?_
_Give us the Jew_, the innkeeper had said. Daoud knew that Christians
took delight in mistreating Jews.
_And I told the old man to go in there. But I did not know he was a Jew.
Or that these people would harm him._
Whether Celino was a madman or not, Daoud would have to get him out of
this, because he was carrying half of their supply of precious stones.
When they left Lucera, Daoud and Celino had divided the twenty-four
jewels Manfred had traded for the great emerald. Each carried half of
the precious stones in a pouch hidden under his tunic.
Daoud studied the room. There must be a good thirty people there, most
of them men. Aside from the six surrounding Celino, few of them seemed
menacing. But if someone jumped in to help Celino, more might join the
other side.
_What do I have to help me? That boy who came with the old man. Sophia.
And Celino and the dog._
If only, he thought, he had the Scorpion. But that was in the dining
hall there, with all their other baggage, which Celino--the fool!--was
supposed to be guarding.
He backed out into the small courtyard and bumped into the boy, who had
followed him to the door. "You. Your father is in danger in there. And
my friend has gotten into trouble trying to help him. We must get them
out, you and I."
"Why should Christians help us?" The bitter voice was high. The boy must
be very young. He was wrapped up like a Bedouin. His head and face were
swathed in a dark cloth, his body cloaked. Only those sparkling eyes
showed.
"I must help my friend," Daoud said. "If he lives, you can ask him why
he chose to defend your father. Are you just going to cower here?"
"What should I do?"
What would make those men leave Celino alone long enough to give him a
chance to escape? Standing outside the doorway with the boy, Daoud's
eyes searched the courtyard again as his mind tried to fit what he saw
into a plan.
Daoud looked up at the lanterns again. Fire was sure to take men's minds
off a fight.
"Take the lanterns and run up those stairs. Throw them into the bedding
and get a good fire going. Make sure the floor is burning. Then come
back down to me."
Daoud took the two lanterns down from their pegs and handed them to the
boy, who raced up the stairs that clung to the outer wall of the inn.
Daoud went to the stable and opened the doors of the stalls that held
their four horses. He dragged out the saddles and bridles and threw them
over the horses' backs. Trained with horses since boyhood, he worked
with practiced speed. By the time the boy was beside him again, he had
two of the horses saddled.
He looked up and saw bright yellow flames flickering in the upper
windows.
"You did that well," he said. "You know how to saddle horses?"
"Yes, Messere."
"Get these two ready, then. Do it right; you will be riding one. And
hold them here with your donkey."