The madman had a loud voice. Daoud could hear him long before he could
see the victim and his torturers. The people around Daoud jostled and
craned their necks toward the sound of the screams.
The heretic, in accordance with his sentence, had been dragged through
every street in the city and tormented at every intersection, but most
of Orvieto's citizens had been waiting in the Piazza San Giovenale to
see his final agonies before the cathedral he had desecrated. The piazza
was so packed with people it seemed not another person could squeeze in.
Daoud had positioned himself at the foot of the front steps of the
cathedral. He faced a wooden platform, newly built in the center of the
piazza, on four legs twice the height of a man. Above the platform rose
a tall pole. The whole structure was of white wood, unseasoned and
unpainted--which was only sensible, since it would shortly be destroyed.
Bundles of firewood were piled under it.
Daoud's arms were wedged so tightly to his side by the crowd of people
standing about him that it was an effort for him to wipe his face with
his sleeve. He had expected Italy to be cooler than Egypt now, in the
middle of the Christian month of September, but the damp heat of summer
lingered. Thick gray clouds hung low over the city. Sweat streamed from
under Daoud's red velvet cap, and he wished he could wear a turban or a
burnoose to keep his forehead cool and dry.
At the top of the cathedral steps, in a space cleared by papal guards,
stood six red-robed cardinals. Ugolini was among them. He had not wanted
to witness the execution, but Daoud had persuaded him to go. His
presence, like Daoud's, might counter the suspicion that those who
opposed the alliance with the Tartars were connected with the
disturbances against them.
Near Ugolini stood Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil, the Tartars' chief
supporter in the Sacred College, in a scarlet robe trimmed with ermine,
and a broad-brimmed red hat. He looked disdainfully down at another
cardinal who Ugolini had pointed out to Daoud as Guy le Gros, also a
Frenchman. Every so often de Verceuil would cock an ear to the screams,
which were coming closer, or he would glance that way with bright, eager
eyes.
Behind the cardinals stood a man-at-arms holding a staff bearing the
pope's standard, a gold and white banner blazoned with the crossed keys
of Peter in red. Ugolini had learned from the pope's majordomo that His
Holiness would not attend. Like Fra Tomasso, Urban had neither need nor
desire to see this execution.
One who did have to witness the torture and death of the heretic stood
with folded arms on the cathedral steps. He was stocky and much shorter
than the two guards in yellow and blue, the city colors, who stood
holding halberds on either side of him. His face was grim, and there
were deep shadows around his eyes. A small, thin mustache adorned his
upper lip. Daoud knew him to be Frescobaldo d'Ucello, podesta of
Orvieto.
Daoud's eye moved on. There was the young hero, the man who had captured
the would-be assassin. Count Simon de Gobignon stood a little apart from
the churchmen and the podesta, speaking to no one. It seemed he had
brought none of his Frankish henchmen with him. The black velvet cap he
wore and his long dark-brown hair contrasted with the pallor of his thin
face. His dress was rich but somber, his silk mantle a deep maroon, his
tunic purple. His gloved left hand played nervously with the hilt of his
sword, that very sword that had stricken the blade from the heretic's
hand.
It was surprising, Daoud thought, that the count's sword was a long,
curving scimitar with a jeweled scabbard and hilt. What was the boy
doing with a Muslim sword? A trophy of some past crusade, no doubt.
_Not enjoying your triumph here today, are you, young Frank? Born to
rank and power and wealth, with castles and knights and servants and
lands all around you. You have probably never seen a battle, much less
fought in one. And yet, knowing not what war is, you try to bring
together the Tartar hordes and your crusader knights that they may lay
waste my country, kill my people, and stamp out my faith._
Recalling how he and de Gobignon had faced each other at the pope's
council, Daoud once again felt rage boil up within him and wondered why
he hated the young nobleman so. Was it because he intended to use
Sophia to spy on de Gobignon and corrupt him, and that she must bed with
him? But that was her work, Daoud tried to tell himself, just as warfare
was his.
But was this warfare? To pander to a fat friar's yearning for an old
book? To send a lovely woman to the bed of a spoiled young nobleman? To
incite a poor fool, maddened by God, into getting himself tortured to
death? Daoud wished he could fight openly--draw his sword and challenge
de Gobignon. To drive him to his knees, to cut him down, to strike and
strike for the people he loved and for God.
_To kill him before all, as I did to Kassar._
Daoud, like de Gobignon, was alone. Lorenzo dared not come; the
condemned man might recognize him and call out to him. Daoud would never
bring Sophia to witness such a sight, even though there were many women,
and even children, in the crowd.
The previous night Tilia had told him that she had rented for the day a
house overlooking the piazza, from which some important patrons would
enhance their pleasure with Tilia's women by watching the pain of the
heretic. Daoud looked around at the colonnaded façades of the palaces
around the square, wondering which were the windows through which
Tilia's depraved clients watched.
A howl went up from the crowd in the square, the people around Daoud
shouting so loudly as to deafen him. He saw a cage made of wooden poles
rocking into the piazza. People cheered and laughed. Two executioners in
blood-red tunics, their heads and faces covered with red hoods, stood on
either side of the cage, each man holding in his hands a pair of
long-handled pincers. Standing on tiptoe, Daoud saw on the platform of
the cart a black iron dish from which ribbons of gray smoke arose.
The prisoner, squatting in the cage, was silent for the moment. Even at
this distance Daoud could see his shoulders shaking spasmodically with
his panting. He was naked, and all over his flesh were bleeding,
blackened wounds.
The executioners thrust the ends of their pincers into the coals and
held them there. When they raised them out and brandished them, the
claws were glowing red. They turned to the prisoner, who started
screaming at once. One executioner thrust his pincers through the front
of the cage. The prisoner tried to back away, but the cage was too
small. He only pressed his buttocks against the bars behind him, where
the other executioner had crept and now dug the jaws of his pincers into
the man's flesh as the crowd roared with laughter. Daoud heard the
sizzle. The man's scream rose to a pitch that made Daoud's ears ring.
The executioner held up his pincers with a gobbet of burnt flesh caught
in them for the crowd to see, then slung them so that the bit of meat
flew through the air. Daoud saw people reach up to grab at it.
_This man is dying horribly because of me._ The thought bit into Daoud's
heart like the red-hot claws. When Sophia had said as much accusingly to
him, he had shrugged it off. Now he had to face the fact.
_Let your guilt pierce you through the heart. Do not armor yourself
against it. Do not run away from it. Above all, do not turn your back on
it._ So Saadi had advised him after he avenged himself on Kassar.
* * * * *
The sands of the Eastern Desert were the color of drying blood. The
hooves of Daoud's pony sank into them with each step, and he wished he
had a camel to ride.
Their training troop had never traveled this far south, and Nicetas had
been a fool, Daoud thought, to go hunting in unknown and dangerous
country with only a pony to ride. No wonder he had not come back
yesterday. Probably, the sun had killed the pony, and Nicetas was
crouched in some wadi waiting to be rescued.
_I should have gone with him._
But they had been friends, and more than friends, for two years, and
from time to time each needed to be alone. They both understood that.
And so, when the naqeeb Mahmoud gave them a day of rest after the trek
down from El Kahira, and Nicetas said he wanted to go out alone to get
himself a pair of antelope horns, Daoud simply hugged him and sent him
on his way.
Daoud felt the murderous heat of the noon sun on his head through his
burnoose. Ten times hotter here than at El Kahira, now a hundred leagues
to the north. The wind filled the air with red dust, and he had wrapped
a scarf over his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were exposed, looking for
Nicetas.
_Antelope horns! Not even a lizard could live in this desert._
He should get into the shade, but he did not want to stop searching. If
Nicetas were hurt and lying out in this sun, it would burn him to death.
Daoud saw a line of sharp-pointed hills off to his left. There was shade
there, and Nicetas would try to reach shade. He tapped his pony's
shoulder lightly with his switch and turned its head toward the hills.
Nearly there, he saw what looked like a black rock half-buried ahead of
him. Could it be a body? For a moment his heart hammered. No, it was too
big. His pony floundered on through the sand till they reached the dark
shape.
It was Nicetas's pony, dead. Windblown sand half covered it, but he was
sure of it. Nicetas's pony was black.
Daoud swung down from his horse, looping the reins around his wrist so
it could not run off, and knelt to examine the dead pony. He brushed
away sand from the forehead. Three white dots; he knew those markings
well.
He scooped sand away from the dead pony and found an arrow jutting out
of the chest. In spite of the fiery sun his body went cold. Wild
Sudanese were said to prowl this desert.
He jerked on the arrow. It had gone in deep, and the head must be broad.
It took him long to tear it free.
The head was wedge-shaped and made of steel, with sword-sharp edges.
Sudanese tribesmen had no such arrows. Even Mamelukes had only a few.
Each Mameluke carried two or three, to use against a well-armored
opponent.
"Oh, God, help me find Nicetas," he prayed.
Nicetas was out there somewhere. Daoud pushed out of his mind the
thought that he might be dead.
Was this punishment for their sin of loving each other, he wondered as
he mounted his little horse. God frowned on men lying with men, the
mullahs said, but everyone knew that men, especially young men far from
women, often took comfort in one another.
He pulled his burnoose farther down over his eyes to shade them better
against the sun. He wanted water, but he would not let himself drink
until he had reached the hills. He might find Nicetas there, and Nicetas
might need the water.
The hills thrust abruptly out of the sand in long vertical folds. Half
blinded by the glare, he could see only opaque blackness where the sun
did not strike them.
He thought he saw movement in one shadow. He kicked the pony, driving it
to struggle faster through the sand, keeping his eyes fixed on the spot.
A deep crevice sliced into the hillside. Daoud rode into it cautiously.
Whoever killed Nicetas's mount might still be somewhere about.
Once out of the sun, he slid down from the saddle. He saw no water, but
there was a dead tamarisk, its branches like supplicating arms, at the
mouth of the crevice. He tied the pony to a limb and moved, slowly,
deeper into the shadow.
He looked down at the floor of the crevice, paved with drifting sand and
tiny pebbles. He felt a pain in his heart as he saw a trail of dark
circular spots, each about the size of his hand. It could be a wounded
animal, he told himself.
Then he saw a palmprint, the same dried color, and the pain in his heart
sharpened.
He saw the movement again, at the far end of the crevice. A figure lay
with its legs stretched out before it, its back propped against the
brown stone. Pale hands were clasped over its stomach.
He heard a low, moaning sound, and realized it was coming not from
Nicetas but from his own mouth.
Daoud ran and fell to his knees beside him. The half-open eyes widened
and the amber gaze turned in his direction. The Greek boy's face was
reddened with dust that clung to his sweat. His lips, partially open,
were so dry and encrusted they looked like scabs. Daoud put his hand on
Nicetas's cheeks. His face was burning.
Now the hurt in Daoud's heart was like death itself.
_I am going to lose him._
But this was no time to wail and weep. He must do everything he could.
It might yet be God's will that he save his friend.
_Let him live, oh God, and I will never sin with him again._
"I knew you would come." The voice was so faint Daoud could barely hear
it above the wind whistling past the mouth of the crevice.
Daoud sprang to his feet and ran to his pony to get his water bottle. He
untwisted the stopper over his friend's mouth.
The Greek boy shook his head. "I cannot swallow. Just pour a little in
my mouth to wet it." Daoud saw deep red cracks in Nicetas's lips. The
water trickled out the corners of his mouth and streaked his dusty
cheeks.
A hundred half-formed thoughts crowded Daoud's mind. His eyes burned,
and pain pounded at his chest.