The rats scavenged in the garbage and the cats hunted the rats. And cats
and rats scurried out of the way of the two men who staggered beneath a
waning moon through the streets of Orvieto.
"I was truly drunk," said Daoud. "But only my body was drunk. It is
still drunk." He walked with one arm thrown over Lorenzo's shoulder to
steady his steps. It must have rained during the evening. The streets
were slippery, and the clean, vaporous scent of drying rain was stronger
than the usual odor of rotting rubbish piled between the houses in the
spaces the Orvietans called quintane.
"You feign the extremity of drunkenness quite well," said Lorenzo. They
had met by prearrangement on the street outside the Monaldeschi palace.
Sophia and Cardinal Ugolini left earlier and separately, carried in
sedan chairs and escorted by the cardinal's guards.
"What hour is it?" Daoud asked.
"Past the third nocturn. Do you know what that means?"
"It was explained to me once, but now my memory seems to be drunk."
"Simply, dawn is not far off," said Celino. "The third nocturn is
between midnight and dawn. The contessa's reception began at the first
nocturn, between sunset and midnight. Tell me, did you never experience
wine in Egypt?"
Daoud decided that, much as he liked Lorenzo, he did not want to confide
any of Saadi's most secret teachings to an atheist.
"Many times we stayed up all night, drinking kaviyeh, talking and
watching the dancers. But we do not drink wine."
"Really?" said Lorenzo, glancing at him. "Permit me to be skeptical. I
know many Muslims who drink wine."
Daoud shook his head. "Most Mamelukes do not drink wine. When Baibars
became sultan, he closed all the wine shops in El Kahira." He also
decided not to tell Lorenzo that in private Baibars enjoyed the Tartar
drink kumiss, made from the fermented milk of mares.
Lorenzo grunted. "Then you Mamelukes are stricter in your observance
than many others who were born to Islam."
They passed the cathedral of San Giovenale. It was lit within, and the
narrow stained glass windows glowed red, yellow, blue, and white.
_You go into a Christian church during the day, and the windows are all
alight with colors. At night the windows are black if you are inside the
church but brightly lit if you are outside. As if the church is calling
to those outside in the darkness._
"So beautiful," Daoud said, "even if the images were idolatrous."
"You should see some of the new cathedrals up near Paris. The windows
are much bigger, and the figures are more lifelike."
"Do you admire the Christian churches?" Daoud asked.
"I admire beauty wherever I find it. On Sicily, there are beautiful
stained glass windows in many synagogues."
"We are building a mosque in El Kahira that will be the wonder of the
world. But when were you in Paris?"
"Four years ago, on a mission for King Manfred."
_Four years ago I was battling Tartars in Palestine._
As they passed the open front doors of the cathedral, Daoud looked up
the steps. He saw the bright yellow light of massed candles and heard a
chorus of male voices raised in song. The voices seemed thin and high,
as if reaching up into the night sky. He had heard such singing
before--a long time before. He felt a catch in his throat.
"Why are the priests singing so late at night?"
"Those are the priests of the cathedral chapter. It is the beginning of
day for them. They are chanting lauds, the dawn prayer of the Church."
Listening to the voices, Daoud felt hot tears running down his face.
Lorenzo glanced at him and chuckled. "I see you are not so impervious to
the attractions of Christianity."
Daoud was embarrassed, but he could not stop the flow of tears. "It is
the wine."
He was remembering high mass in the chapel of the castle, with his
father's hand on his shoulder as they knelt and the chief priest in
dazzling white and gold cope raised the white wafer toward heaven. His
father whispered, "Jesus is come down among us," and then his strong
tenor voice joined in "Veni Creator Spiritus."
_I weep now for my father because I had no chance to weep for him when
he was killed._
"Suppose he is in some Christian heaven looking down at me. What would
he think?"
Daoud started at the sound of his own words.
_I must be drunk. I would never speak so in front of Lorenzo--or
anyone--otherwise._
"Who is looking down at you?" Lorenzo asked. His shoulders were hard and
broad under Daoud's arm, and he seemed to bear Daoud's weight without
the least difficulty. They were past the cathedral now, following a
straight, fairly wide street that gently sloped downward. Broken clouds
drifted away from the half moon. Like a watchman's lantern it hung over
the center of the street, between the overhanging second stories of the
houses.
"My father," said Daoud, and a sob bubbled up in his throat as he softly
spoke the word, albeit in the unfamiliar tongue of Italy. "How he must
hate me and curse me for fighting for Islam."
Lorenzo halted his stride and lifted his head. Then he started walking
again. He raised his hand and gripped the wrist Daoud was resting on his
shoulder.