"Bonsoir, Messire. I have not seen you since the day the heretic was
burned. I trust the spectacle did not disturb you?"
Simon had deliberately addressed David of Trebizond in French, to find
out whether the trader spoke that language in addition to Greek and
Italian. He might be from the other side of the earth, but there was
something very French-looking about him.
They stood facing each other a little apart from the crowd gathered in
the sala maggiore, the great hall of the Palazzo Monaldeschi. The large
room was lit by hundreds of candles. Four musicians in a distant corner
sawed away energetically at vielles of different sizes held between
their knees, while two others blew on hautboys. Tables were piled high
with meat and pastry along the sides of the hall. Servants circulated,
refilling goblets from pitchers of wine. Neither Simon nor David was
holding a goblet.
The big blond man, who had not been looking at Simon, turned and stared
at him. Simon detected a pallor under his tan. David did not react to
the sound of French like a man who had heard an unfamiliar language. He
looked more as if he had heard the voice of a ghost.
David bowed. "Pardonnez-moi, Monseigneur. I had not expected to be
addressed in French."
Simon was surprised to hear in David's northern French the harsh accents
of the English Channel coast.
"Where did you learn my tongue, Messire?" Simon asked.
David shrugged. "Since the Crusades began, many of your countrymen have
passed through Trebizond."
Many Crusaders had been Normans, Simon thought. It made sense. But it
was odd that this man David, who claimed to be a Greek, not only spoke
like a Norman, but looked like nothing so much as a big, blond Norman
knight. Simon had seen just such faces--square, with long, straight
noses and cold gray-blue eyes--everywhere in Normandy and in England
when he had accompanied King Louis on a state visit to the realm of his
vassal, King Henry of England.
But David did not dress like a Norman, Simon noted. His apparel was
gaudy in the extreme. He wore a white cap with a blood-red feather, a
short cloth-of-gold cape, particolored hose--light green and peach--and
forest-green boots.
Simon, who, in emulation of King Louis preferred somber colors, had
chosen for tonight a brown velvet singlet and maroon hose. The brightest
thing about him was the jeweled handle of his prized scimitar.
"I hope that you were not upset by the bloody execution of that heretic
last week," Simon said once again.
"Oh, no." David smiled. "But I saw you there, and you seemed to be."
_God's wounds, how true that is!_ was Simon's first thought. He had held
himself rigid throughout the heretic's horrible death, afraid that he
would throw up.
But how disturbing to discover that this Greek merchant, apparently an
enemy, had seen right through Simon's effort to appear imperturbable. Of
all the people in Orvieto, this man was the last Simon would want to
reveal himself to. He cursed himself for giving David such a perfect
opening.
_How could I be such a fool? And I thought I was so clever, addressing
him in French._
Simon had been anticipating his next encounter with David with a mixture
of eagerness, fear, and anger, almost as if it were to be a battle. Now
he wished he had stayed away from the man.
"I felt sorry for the poor devil, as I believe a Christian should,"
Simon said. "Did you not?"
There was a baleful look in David's eyes, as if he hated Simon for his
answer.
But the man from Trebizond only shrugged and said, "I have seen much
blood and pain in my life."
A broad figure in a white robe billowed up to Simon and David. Simon
remembered him from the pope's council--Fra Tomasso d'Aquino, the
distinguished Dominican. The friar's belt of rosary beads rattled as he
walked. It would take a week, Simon thought, to recite all the Our
Fathers and Hail Marys that encircled Fra Tomasso.
"Count, I trust you will forgive my interrupting you. I have already had
the pleasure of meeting Messer David of Trebizond, but I have wanted to
speak to you ever since you arrived in Orvieto. As a seminarian I
studied for a year in Paris under your uncle, Hugues de Gobignon. A
friar of great renown. His murder was such a tragedy."
Simon felt uneasy at reminiscence about the uncle who was not really his
uncle. As he chatted with Fra Tomasso, his eyes roved through the large
room. He noticed the crowd gathered around the Tartars, John and Philip,
who were seated in large, comfortable-looking chairs placed near a
crowned swan at the center of a serving table. He saw a servant pour
wine into a silver cup John held out to him. More of that wonderful wine
of Montefiascone?
Beside the Tartars stood a woman named Ana from the land of the Bulgars,
territory now ruled by the Tartars. Anything, thought Simon bitterly, to
keep Friar Mathieu from achieving too much importance. De Verceuil had
found her and had taken her along as interpreter when the Tartars had
their first private audience with the pope.
Another group stood around the seated Pope Urban, many of them in the
red and purple of cardinals, archbishops, and bishops. There was de
Verceuil, of course, as near to the pope as he could get. The cardinal's
vanity, as usual, had made him choose layman's garb, a tunic of
gold-braided silk and a cape of aquamarine satin trimmed with red-dyed
squirrel fur. And between two prelates' shoulders Simon could just make
out the top of Cardinal Ugolini's fuzzy gray head.
If Ugolini was here, had his niece Sophia come tonight as well? Yes,
there she was, halfway across the hall, talking to the Contessa di
Monaldeschi. The pale violet of Sophia's gown made her skin look darker.
The poets always sang of _fair_ ladies, but Simon found her dark
complexion wondrously attractive. She had let her embroidered silk shawl
fall away from her bare shoulders, and he marveled at their sweet
delicacy. Under her gauze veil the pearls in her headdress twinkled like
stars against hair that was black as night.
"Excuse me, Fra Tomasso, Messer David. I have promised to deliver a most
urgent message to the contessa."
Fra Tomasso, in the middle of an anecdote about Friar Hugues's subtlety
as an inquisitor, gave Simon leave to go. As David bowed, his eyes met
Simon's, and his look was at once both knowing and bitter. He, too, was
a guest in Ugolini's house, thought Simon. Was he, too, attracted to
Sophia? Who would not be?
As Simon moved toward Sophia, the contessa's majordomo strode to the
center of the sala maggiore and called in a deep voice, "Signori e
madonne, tables, game boards, and cards are set for your amusement in
the inner galleria."
Then Simon was bowing before the contessa, acutely aware of Sophia
standing beside her. He kissed the old lady's shiny knuckles, hoping he
would have an opportunity to kiss Sophia's hand as well.
"My dear boy, did you hear the announcement? Do you enjoy cards or
backgammon? I understand your pious king forbids such amusements at his
court. And yet our Holy Father himself loves to play alii." She saw
Simon staring at Sophia and smiled.
"You see, my dear?" the contessa said to Sophia. "Does this splendid
young Frenchman look as if he is interested in cards or dice? Or in you?
Enough of your modesty."
Sophia lowered her eyelids and blushed. How beautiful her olive
complexion was, tinted with rose!
"The contessa is merciless," she said in a low voice.
"Merciless!" the contessa cackled. "My dear, if I were the envious sort,
then indeed would I show you no mercy. By San Giorgio, I would have you
poisoned. But I made up my mind many, many years ago, when I saw my
looks beginning to fade, that I had to choose between hating the beauty
of other women or enjoying it. I was already spending all my hatred on
the odious Filippeschi. So I decided that when I saw beautiful women I
would rejoice at their presence in the world and delight myself by
remembering my own youth and imagining the pleasures they must be
experiencing."
She put her hand on Simon's arm. "What do you think, Count Simon? Would
you like me to present this young lady to you?"
"A thousand thanks, Contessa," said Simon, falling into the extravagant
style of speaking the occasion seemed to call for. "I have already had
the great pleasure of meeting Madonna Sophia at her uncle's mansion."
The contessa nodded. "Ah, you have called upon Cardinal Ugolini. I am
glad to hear that. I would have told you to if you had not done it on
your own." She turned again to Sophia. "Your uncle and I have been
friends ever since the Holy Father moved the papal household to Orvieto.
I deeply admire and respect him. When he reads the stars for me, his
insights and predictions are remarkably accurate. His remedies for my
body's complaints always achieve their purpose, which is more than I can
say for other physicians I have consulted. And best of all, he finds
time for a lonely old lady, when others who should be more attentive
make excuses."
"My uncle is a marvelous man, Your Signory," Sophia murmured. "I am most
fortunate to be his niece. Otherwise I could never hope to be present on
this magnificent occasion, to meet and talk with you."
"And to be waited upon by this handsome cavaliere," the contessa
finished for her, smiling broadly.
_The contessa really is enjoying this_, Simon thought. The old lady was
beaming with pleasure.
Sophia turned to Simon.
"I am most pleased to see you again, Count." Her eyes seemed to shine at
him. Was it his imagination?
She held out her hand. His whole body felt more intensely alive as his
fingers touched hers. He noticed as he bent over her hand that she wore
one ring, a garnet of a red so deep as to be almost black. His lips
touched the creamy skin of the back of her hand, and he thought he felt
her tremble slightly.
Contessa Elvira eyed both of them, sighed happily, and said, "I think it
is time for me to find someone to play rota with. Perhaps I will ask
your uncle to tell my fortune with the cards. He reads the cards as well
as he reads the stars."
They bowed as she moved off. As she turned her back, Simon noticed that
her long blue velvet gown had threadbare patches in the rear. She was so
old and so powerful, Simon thought, that such things did not matter to
her. Perhaps it was a favorite gown from the days when she was young and
beautiful, like Sophia.
But he doubted that she had ever been as beautiful as Sophia.
"May I bring you some wine or something to eat, Madonna?" he asked
Sophia.
"Thank you, I am not hungry. But"--she gestured as if to free him from
obligation to stand with her--"perhaps you--"
"Oh, no, I am quite content. A hand of cards, then?" Simon hoped she
would see that he was making it his responsibility to entertain her.
She took a deep breath, and Simon felt a small thrill as he watched her
bosom rise and fall under the fine silk of her violet gown. "What I
would really like, Count, would be a stroll in the garden. This room,
big as it is, is so hot and crowded. And even though it is September,
this evening it is very warm, do you not think so?"
"Very warm," said Simon, delightedly taking her arm.
* * * * *
As Fra Tomasso chatted with him, Daoud watched de Gobignon and Sophia
stroll across the brightly candlelit hall to the door leading to the
inner galleria.
_De Gobignon spoke to me in the language of my parents._
Sire Geoffrey and Dame Evelyn Langmuir, he knew, were of English stock.
But Daoud's father had once told him that all the English nobility spoke
French.
Tonight was the first time since Daoud landed in Italy that he had heard
French or had spoken it. When he first heard himself addressed in
French, he had experienced a strange and frightening sensation, as if
his dead father were speaking to him. He hated de Gobignon for doing
that to him.
_And I hate him because he will enjoy the woman I want for myself._
The voice of Fra Tomasso faded away. Black rage filled Daoud's skull,
deafening and blinding him. He pictured Sophia naked in Simon de
Gobignon's arms, and his body trembled.
And when he did become Sophia's lover, the puppy would have no
understanding of how much of a woman he was possessing. To him she would
be the sweet Sicilian niece of a cardinal. He would have no idea of the
woman behind that mask.
Sophia, Daoud had come to realize, had known suffering and loss. She had
survived at the very bottom of the world, and she had risen to be the
intimate of an emperor and a king.
She occupied his thoughts, Daoud sensed with some uneasiness, far more
often than did Blossoming Reed back in El Kahira.
Simon would know Sophia Orfali, not Sophia Karaiannides, who had told
Daoud more than once, he thought with a grim smile, how much she hated
Franks. She would make a fool of this Frank.
Fra Tomasso was rambling on about the one sea voyage he had ever taken,
from Normandy to Naples. "One would think going around the continent of
Europe like that would take much longer than making the same journey
overland. It took us only a month, whereas on land it would have taken
at least three. The sea is a two-dimensional surface. On land one is
traveling over a three-dimensional surface and can encounter many
obstacles."
_Yes, and a carrier pigeon travels much faster than a ship._ In a month
or two Daoud's request for the book Fra Tomasso wanted would have
reached Baibars, and a few months after that, if Baibars could obtain
the book, the Friar's pudgy hands would be holding it.
Listening with half an ear, Daoud looked about him at the marble pillars
that ran up to the gilded beams of the ceiling, at the paintings of
angels and saints on the plaster walls, at the fragments of old Roman
statues that stood here and there--mostly nude torsos. Idolatry, yes,
but beautifully done. The arts of the Christians and their pagan
predecessors were not altogether as barbaric as he had imagined them.
Ugolini suddenly appeared at Daoud's elbow to interrupt his thoughts and
Fra Tomasso's discourse. "Excuse me, Fra Tomasso, but His Holiness
wishes a word with David."
The little cardinal's eyes darted about nervously. Obviously, the idea
of a conversation between Daoud and the pope terrified him.
"Have you had any wine?" said Ugolini in a low voice as they crossed the
room to where Urban, in his white cassock, a red cloak wrapped around
his shoulders, was sitting in a large, high-backed chair. The spiritual
father of all Christians was dressed heavily for such a warm evening,
Daoud thought. A sign of ill health.
"I never drink wine if I can avoid it," he answered Ugolini.
"Well, you will not be able to avoid it tonight. But remember, you have
no head for it."
Daoud was about to retort sharply, but he swallowed the impulse. Such
unnecessary advice was the cardinal's way of allaying his terror. He had
never told Ugolini about the training in resistance to drugs he had
undergone with Sheikh Saadi. Al-koahl, the intoxicating element in wine,
could affect his body but not his mind.
* * * * *
"This is a very dangerous practice," Sheikh Saadi said as he crouched
over a small cooking pot suspended on a tripod above a low fire. "But it
is now a necessary one for you."
Whatever was bubbling in the pot gave off a strange, cloying odor that
Daoud found frightening and seductive at the same time. They were in the
inner garden of Saadi's small house in al-Fustat, the oldest quarter of
El Kahira.
Daoud half sat, half reclined on a pile of cushions. He leaned back and
saw that the stars were fewer and the sky was lighter. They had been up
all night drinking kaviyeh.
The liquid Saadi was brewing now smelled nothing like kaviyeh. Studying
the simmering, sweet-smelling liquid, Saadi seemed satisfied. He took
the pot off the fire and set it on a stone.
Still on his knees, the sheikh swung around to smile at Daoud. In the
firelight his face was many shades of brown and black. But his beard, in
the years Daoud had known him, had gone from gray to a white as pure as
the wool from which the Sufi took their name.
"Kneel and compose your mind," said Saadi.
Daoud rose from a sitting position to his knees. As Saadi had taught
him, and as he had practiced for many years, he visualized his mind as
an empty pool, walled with tiles. A fountain sprang up in the center of
the pool and filled it slowly with clear water. The walls of the pool
disappeared, and there was nothing but clear water in all directions,
stretching away to infinity.
Saadi seemed to know when Daoud had reached the vision of infinity, and
he spoke again.
"Think of God."
Daoud saw a mountain, a flame, the sun. None of those were God. At last
he saw the blackness of the spaces between the stars. There in the
infinite lightlessness was the dwelling place of God, like the Black
Stone in the Qa'aba. He saw the darkness that veiled God, and he locked
the idea of God in his mind.
"Now, hold the thought of God, and drink."
Saadi held a silver cup to his lips. The liquid was sweet and thick. He
swallowed, and it burned the lining of his stomach.
"What is it?"
"Wine mixed with hashish."
Daoud was shocked.
_Filth, spiritual poison!_
Saadi himself had taught him that. And now Saadi had tricked him into
sipping the vile stuff.
He swayed on his knees, feeling dizzy and angry. Saadi held up a warning
hand.
"Remain in the Presence of God. He will protect you from the ill effects
of the poison. This is the practice."
Daoud struggled back to the infinite emptiness that hid God, and as he
did so he felt his mind clear. The drugs were spreading like tiny flames
through his body, but his body was far away. Too far away for him to
feel the heat.
Beside him, Saadi said, "Everything made by God has two sides, a useful
side and a harmful side. That which is sometimes a poison can at other
times be a medicine. Even kaviyeh, which we drink in such great
quantities to give vigor to our minds, can be a poison. If a substance
is taken in the right amount, on the right occasion, with the right
attitude, it can unlock doors in the mind. Our lord Baibars, peace be
upon him, has told me he plans to send you to the Hashishiyya for
further training. This practice will help you to gain more from their
teachings--and protect you from being corrupted by them. In the months
to come you will learn to take in every kind of intoxicating substance
and keep your mind free. This is not magic. This is a power of the
spirit. What are you feeling?"
"The drug devours my body, but my mind is in the Presence of God."
"One day, when you have learned all you can from the Hashishiyya, I will
teach you the secret of the most powerful drug of all--soma, the drug
that is made by the mind and does not harm the body at all."
* * * * *
_No head for wine? No man in this room is less susceptible to wine._
De Verceuil still stood beside the white-bearded pope. His gloomy face
tightened as his eyes met Daoud's.
Daoud dropped to one knee before the pope and kissed the heavy gold ring
that bore a tiny engraving of a man in a boat. He saw that the old man
was wearing white satin slippers.
Daoud felt so dizzied by the wonder of this moment that the tiled floor
seemed to shake under him. He held in his hand the hand of the Pope of
Rome, successor to those popes who had sent wave after wave of crusaders
crashing against the walls of Islam, whose words had caused the deaths
of thousands and thousands of the faithful. He, Daoud ibn Abdallah, once
David Langmuir, had penetrated to the very center of Christian power.
_Was there ever a moment like this before in all of time, when a servant
of the true God and a believer in the word of the Prophet held the hand
of a pope in his?_
"Messer David of Trebizond, the Venetians have just raised the prices of
saffron, curry, ginger, and cardamom," said the pontiff in a deep voice.
"All of which are indispensable to my kitchen. Can you furnish me with
spices more cheaply?"
It took all of Daoud's self-control to hold in a burst of laughter. A
Mameluke comes face-to-face with the pope, and what do they discuss? The
price of spices!
But he sobered as he realized how useful the pope's interest in spices
could be to him. As a purveyor of spices to the papal palace, his
position in Orvieto would be more respected and more secure.
"If you deal with us, Holy Father, you are dealing with the people from
whom the Venetians get those spices," said Daoud with a smile as he
stood up. "This is exactly the purpose of my visit."
"Good, good. Have Cardinal Ugolini arrange an appointment for you with
my steward."
As they walked away, Daoud said softly to Ugolini, "Would it not be
amusing if the Sultan of Cairo were to furnish the spices for the pope's
kitchen?" The irony of it once again struck him as funny. What a tale
for the bazaars of El Kahira.