Daoud climbed a ladder, raised the heavy door, and found himself on a
walkway built over the centerline of a roof. It was wide enough for two
men to stand side by side, but there was no railing, and on either side
the red-tiled roof sloped down sharply. The walkway led to a small
structure made of wooden slats, from which Daoud heard fluttering and
cooing. The sight of the dovecote and the sound of the warbling pigeons
reminded Daoud of the rooftops of El Kahira, and for a moment he yearned
for a sight of the Bhar al-Nil flowing swiftly past the city or the
sound of the muezzin's call to prayer.
He stopped to look around. This was an excellent vantage point. From
here he could see that Tilia's mansion was actually shaped like
Ugolini's, a hollow square around an atrium. The difference was that her
establishment was made from the joining of many houses that had once
been separate. From here he could also see most of Orvieto. Rows and
rows of peaked roofs glowed warm red and orange in the sunset. Off in
the northwest corner of the city bulked the great roof of the cathedral,
like a galley among rowboats. To the south, the six square turrets of
the pope's palace. And on all sides of the city, the rounded green hills
of this part of Italy called Umbria.
"The piccioni fly to Napoli," said Tilia breathlessly behind him. Daoud
was amazed at how she had managed to climb so many steps and finally a
ladder. There must be muscle under all that fat.
He pulled open the whitewashed wooden door of the dovecote. His entry
set off a furious flapping of wings, unleashing a storm of feathers in
the dark enclosure. The smell of pigeon droppings was heavy in the warm
air. He began breathing through his mouth to keep the odor out of his
nose. Tilia pushed past him, whistling and clucking to the pigeons and
calming them down.
"Who gets the messages in Napoli?" he asked.
She turned to him with a smile. "Another brothel keeper. A man. I will
not tell you his name. The wives of my piccioni live in his dovecote.
When I release a piccione here, he flies to Napoli and visits with his
wife until one of my servants rides there and brings him back. Piccioni
are much more faithful to their mates than men and women."
Daoud laughed. He enjoyed Tilia's cynicism. The strong light of the
setting sun fell in bars through the slats across her face and body.
"How long does it take for the messages to reach El Kahira?"
She looked at him as if he were a simpleton. "Who can say? From Napoli
someone must take the message capsules aboard a ship to a port in
Outremer. So, how long it takes depends on whether the sea is angry or
calm. Once in Outremer they might go on by piccioni again or by camel
caravan. Once I had a reply within two months. The longest I had to wait
was a year and three months." She had, Daoud noted, the brothel keeper's
good memory for numbers.
"May this arrive sooner than that." Daoud reached into a leather scrip
at his belt and drew out the two rolled slips of parchment, each crowded
with tiny Arabic characters.
"Two letters? Where is the other one going?"
"Both to Baibars. They are duplicates. We do that in the field whenever
possible. Twice as much chance that the message will get through."
"I will send one tonight and the other tomorrow morning. What are you
telling him?"
Daoud was not sure Tilia should be asking him that. But as "Morgiana"
she had sent Baibars dozens of long letters from Orvieto. Surely no one
had a better right to know about this correspondence.
Daoud shrugged. "That I have arrived here safely with two companions
sent with me by King Manfred, and that we have been welcomed by the one
who was awaiting me. Even though this is written in a cipher, your name
and the cardinal's name are not mentioned. I go on to say that we have
stirred up the people of Orvieto against the Tartars and that I will
soon speak against them before the pope. And I tell him something of
what I have learned about Italy. He is very curious about the lands of
the infidel."
"The cardinal has agreed to present you to Pope Urban, then?" Her
eyebrows twitched and her mouth tightened.
Her look of displeasure irritated him. For all he knew, it was her
influence that made Ugolini so difficult. But, he thought with grudging
admiration, she herself seemed more resolute than the cardinal.
"He came to see that it was the only course open to us."
"You are persuasive. I see better why your master sent you." She took
the parchments from him, rolled them even tighter, and tied each one
into a tiny leather capsule. One capsule disappeared into a jeweled
purse that hung on her hip. The other she put aside while she reached
into a cage, whistling and twittering. Her hand came out again grasping
a pigeon.
"This is Tonio. He is ten years old. He always gets through." Daoud was
amazed at how calmly the pigeon reposed in Tilia's hand. He was even
more surprised when she handed the bird to him, but he quickly took him,
holding him around the back with thumb and forefinger behind his head,
leaving his chest free so he could breathe easily.
"You've handled birds before," she said, deftly fastening a capsule
under Tonio's wing. She took the bird back from Daoud. Outside the coop,
she opened her hands and the bird took off with a fanning of wings.
"There now," said Tilia. "With that out of the way, perhaps you would
like a piccione of another sort for your pleasure."
"I would indeed," said Daoud, feeling a warmth spread through his body.
"I have just the one for you," Tilia said, patting him on the arm as
they returned to the trap door. "Her name is Francesca. She is
beautiful, warm-hearted, and very discreet. She will serve you supper,
and if you like her, you may spend the night with her. And you need pay
me nothing."
"You are too generous, Madama," said Daoud, recovering from a small
surprise. He had assumed that Tilia would give him access to her women
out of simple hospitality, and it had never occurred to him that he
would have to pay.