_Ugolini is right to be afraid. I saw what they did to that man in the
piazza. I must not make jokes. Ugolini needs to feel he can rely on me._
Celino emerged from the circle around the Tartars to stand before Daoud.
At Daoud's insistence the Sicilian wore garments tailored specially for
this evening, mostly in white, with gold embroidery on the edges of his
waist-length ermine-trimmed cape and his satin tunic.
"What are the Tartars doing?" Daoud asked.
"Sitting and drinking and mostly talking to each other," said Celino.
"There is a crowd of curious people around them, asking them questions."
"Where is that Friar Mathieu who interprets for them?"
Celino shrugged. "Not here. There is a woman from some eastern country
translating."
Daoud felt a tingle of excitement, like a hunter who had sighted prey.
He surveyed the room. Simon de Gobignon--_may his right hand rot and
wither_--had already left with Sophia, as Daoud and Sophia had planned.
De Verceuil still hovered near the pope.
"Celino, you heard the contessa's servant announcing games in the next
room? See if you can draw Cardinal de Verceuil into a game with you."
"He favors backgammon," said Ugolini.
"All the French dote on backgammon," said Celino.
"Keep him entertained," said Daoud.
"To entertain de Verceuil you will have to bore yourself," said Ugolini.
"He prefers a game whose outcome is never in doubt."
Daoud and Ugolini turned to the serving table, and Daoud began
methodically to work his way through the various dishes the contessa's
servants had set out for her guests. There were eels steeped in a
strange, almost rotten-smelling sauce, there were small, tender lobsters
and large, meaty ones. There were baby birds meant to be eaten bones and
all. There was white bread and there were fine cakes. Daoud filled his
stomach, forcing himself to eat even those foods that repelled him,
while he watched Celino join the group gathered with the pope.
Daoud used his dagger to cut himself a slice of roast veal. It was juicy
and tender, and he cut himself another. The meat tasted as if the calf
had been killed that same day; it was not heavily spiced. How pleasant
to dine at the home of a wealthy woman. By the time he finished his
fourth slice, Celino and de Verceuil were in conversation.
Daoud chatted with Ugolini about astrology. In the cardinal's opinion it
was an auspicious night, and that assessment of the heavens helped calm
the bewhiskered little man somewhat.
It being harvest season, the contessa's tables were laden with fresh
fruits. Daoud enjoyed apricots and grapes, and sliced open an orange. He
watched Celino and de Verceuil move toward the galleria, where the
contessa's guests were playing games.
Daoud eyed the two brown-skinned men in their shimmering robes sitting
at their ease in the sala maggiore in the midst of a circle of curious
people. Their chief guardians, de Verceuil, de Gobignon, and Friar
Mathieu, were all elsewhere.
Daoud, as was customary among these people, dipped his hands in a basin
of water and wiped them on the table linen. Then he began to push his
way into the ring of people around the Tartars.
After a few moments he found himself staring down at them. They were
laughing together over some private joke, speaking to each other in
their chirping language.
Fra Tomasso was part of the group around the Tartars, as were several
bishops and two cardinals. A stout, middle-aged woman stood beside John,
the older of the two. She wore a stiff, brocaded blue gown, and her hair
was tightly wrapped in a net of gold thread.
"Madonna Ana," said Fra Tomasso, "ask Messer John Chagan for me whether
the city called Karakorum is still the capital of the Tartar empire."
The woman turned to the white-bearded John and repeated the question in
rapid-flowing Tartar speech.
John bowed and smiled to Fra Tomasso and spoke to the woman. Daoud
almost felt envy at the sight of John's gorgeous ankle-length silk
robe--white, printed with flowers having massive, many-petaled crimson
and purple heads, along with clusters of green leaves and wispy gold
clouds. He gestured as he spoke, and his hands were square,
short-nailed, and hard-looking. Daoud had no doubt that those hands had
taken many lives.
"Messer John says the capital of their empire is wherever the Great Khan
makes his home," said the Bulgarian woman in a flat tone. "It used to be
Karakorum. But now the Great Khan is building a city in the land of
Cathay. The city is called--Xanadu."
"And how long would it take to travel from Baghdad to this Xanadu?" Fra
Tomasso asked.
"Messer John says for a party of Christians to go to Xanadu from Baghdad
might take as long as a year. But for the Tartar post riders it takes
two months."
"Two months!" exclaimed Fra Tomasso. "For a journey that would take
ordinary men a year? How far is it?"
"Permit me to answer that, Father," Daoud interrupted, "because the
Tartars do not know your system of measurements. The roads between
Baghdad and the great cities of Cathay are tortuous, and vast deserts
and huge mountains stand in the way. But our geographers in Trebizond
estimate that a caravan going over that route would travel a distance of
three thousand leagues."
"And the Tartars cover that in two months? Do they fly?" The fat monk's
jowls quivered. Daoud noticed that the front of his white tunic was
stained with what appeared to be spots of gravy and wine.
Daoud turned to Ana. "Kindly ask the ambassadors to explain to Fra
Tomasso how their riders cover such a distance so quickly."
After some conversation between Ana and the Tartars, Fra Tomasso had his
answer. "The fastest riders and horses in our empire carry messages in
relays over the major routes. A message never stops traveling, night and
day, until it reaches its destination. At night, runners with torches
guide the riders."
The Italians looked awed. Daoud felt unimpressed. The Mamelukes also had
post riders. They could carry a message from El Kahira to Damascus in
four days.
"How intelligent!" said Fra Tomasso. "I will warrant we would be better
governed here in Europe if we had such a system."
The note of admiration in Fra Tomasso's voice made Daoud uneasy. A
servant passed, offering cups of wine on a tray. Daoud took a goblet.
John and Philip raised the empty cups they held, and Ana refilled them
from a pitcher on the table.
"Your empire is so vast, is it not," Daoud said to the Tartars through
Ana, "that even messages that travel swiftly cannot hold it together?"
Philip, the black-bearded Tartar, answered that, smiling. "Fear of the
Great Khan holds our empire together," Ana translated.
"Is the Great Khan feared even in the lands of Kaidu Khan and Baraka
Khan?" Daoud asked, naming the two rebels who did not recognize Hulagu
Khan's brother Kublai. He strove for a tone of innocent curiosity.
The faces of the two Tartars remained expressionless, but Daoud,
schooled by his Hashishiyya masters to notice signs of emotion in the
most guarded of men, observed the flush creeping into their brown
cheeks, the slight quickening of their breathing, and the twitching of
their fingers. Until he asked his disturbing question they had answered
Daoud readily, almost casually, as they would any of the contessa's
other guests. Now, in silence, they studied him. Waiting for them to
finish their inspection, Daoud held out his wine cup to Ana, who filled
it from the pitcher on the table. The pitcher was almost empty, and she
signaled to a servant to bring another.
John Chagan said, and Ana translated, "I do not believe we have had the
honor of being presented to you, Messere."
Daoud turned to Fra Tomasso, who was following the conversation closely.
"Will you be good enough to introduce us, Your Reverence?" Any
opportunity to involve himself with the Dominican philosopher could be
useful.
While Fra Tomasso presented him and Ana translated, Daoud stared at the
Tartars with deliberate challenge, draining his wine cup. Philip caught
the meaning of the gesture at once, and drank deep from his silver
goblet as well. John followed suit.
"Trebizond," said John. "Not far from our borders." Daoud had wondered
whether any of the Tartars' sponsors had told them of David of Trebizond
and his testimony against them at the pope's council.
"Your khan, Hulagu, has already pressed our emperor for tribute and
submission," said Daoud, refilling his cup. He tensed, wondering whether
he was pushing the Tartars too far, too quickly. If they grew insulted
and refused to speak to him, he would have accomplished nothing.
He sipped his wine. Before tonight, the taste of wine had always
puckered his mouth, and he had had to force himself to drink it. But
this straw-colored wine was as sweet as spring water. John and Philip
seemed to enjoy it, too. They quickly emptied and refilled their cups.
Daoud watched the two Tartars closely as Ana translated his last remark.
A suggestion of amusement played about the eyes of the white-bearded
John Chagan. John, he guessed, must be about sixty years of age. Old
enough to have ridden under the founder of the Tartar empire, the ruler
called Genghis Khan. Philip, whose face was fuller, was probably half
John's age.
"We are at peace with Trebizond," said John. "We have exchanged
ambassadors." He took a gulp of wine and emitted a deeply satisfied
sigh.
"How can a people who believe that the whole world belongs to them
remain long at peace with anyone?" asked Daoud. He watched the woman,
Ana. If she were to dull the edge of what he said in translating it, his
effort would fail. But she seemed unmoved by what he said and repeated
it quickly in the Tartar tongue.
But now the two Tartars were glaring at him, Philip in open fury, John
with a cold hostility as if Daoud were an insect that needed to be
stepped on.
How much farther could he press them, he wondered as he took another sip
of wine and stared back.