Now Daoud stopped, tensing. He called on the power of his mind to resist
the wine. His tears dried on the instant.
"Walk on," said Lorenzo in a low voice. "Keep your arm over my shoulder.
Keep talking to me." In a louder voice he said, "I do not believe
people's souls go to a heaven of any sort."
"Can they hear us?" Daoud said softly. De Verceuil, he thought. He must
have decided to have me killed. His body felt cold. His journey from
Egypt and all his work, despite tonight's triumph, might end here on a
rain-wet street. And what would happen to Sophia if he were killed?
"They cannot hear what we say. But careful, they might be able to tell
from the tone of our voices whether we are aware of them. Can you
fight?"
"Not well. Not well at all." The Scorpion, the small crossbow hidden in
his cloak, he thought, might account for one or two of them, if he could
see well enough to aim it. He blinked his eyes. He saw two moons hanging
over the street, blinked again, and saw one.
"Do not Jews believe in an immortal soul?" he asked in a normal voice,
keeping up the pretense of conversation.
He cursed his lack of foresight. Why had he not thought to arrange for
some of their bravos to meet them and escort them back to Ugolini's
palace? Because he did not want himself connected with the fighting men
Lorenzo had brought to Orvieto. That it had been a sensible precaution
did not ease his anguish now.
"Maimonides writes that men and women live on after they die only in the
memory of others," said Lorenzo. "Of course, orthodox rabbis say that
Maimonides was a heretic."
"If the dead live on only in memory, then my father is truly dead,
because I have done nothing for his memory, and I fight against all that
he fought for."
Daoud realized that his wine-numbed mind was hardly working. He was
relying on Lorenzo to think of some way to get them through this. He
hated having his life depend on another man's cleverness. He tried to
free his thoughts from the poisonous grip of al-koahl. It had been
easier earlier this evening, but he was very tired now.
"I prefer to believe that people become more broadminded after they
die," said Lorenzo. "They come face-to-face with the truth, whatever it
is, and they see how each of us, Turk and Jew and Christian, has been
struggling to uphold a dimly glimpsed version of what they see plainly.
If they do not feel sorry for us, then probably they laugh at us.
"And now, this way. Move as silently as you can."
Abruptly, holding tight to Daoud's wrist, Lorenzo made a sharp left turn
into an alley so narrow it was almost invisible. It was scarcely more
than a quintana, a tunnel rather than an alley; the overhanging second
stories of the houses on either side actually had a wall in common.
Lorenzo pulling him, Daoud broke into a trot. All around them was a hot
blackness reeking of decay. Daoud could hear creatures scrabbling out of
his way. Ahead was a bluish oblong--the end of the tunnel and the
moonlit space beyond it.
They stopped abruptly. Lorenzo swung Daoud's arm down and stepped away
from him, gripping him briefly by the shoulders to brace him.
"Now you must clear your head, Messer David. I hear them coming. I think
they saw us duck in here. Get out your sword or your dagger, whatever
suits you best, and get ready to fight."
Daoud heard the sound of running boots. He tried to guess how many
pursuers there were, but his head was not clear enough of wine fumes for
that. He fell against the rough plaster wall. Could he and Lorenzo break
through a doorway into a house and hide there? No, the people within
would probably give them away.
He heard the slithering sound of Lorenzo's sword being drawn. He decided
not to use the Scorpion. It would take too long to load and cock it, and
if he fumbled, he would be cut down without a second chance.
His mind was fairly clear of the toxic power of al-koahl, but his body,
still in its grip, felt half dead to him.
_How can I fight, as dizzy as I am? Thou hast said it, O God, wine is an
abomination. Forgive me for drinking it, and help me now._
He reached for his sword, the handsome new one he had bought in Orvieto.
He drew it out slowly, as quietly as he could, and hefted it in his
hand. A bit late now to wonder how it would stand up in a fight.
The running footsteps stopped suddenly. Looking at the end of the alley,
Daoud saw figures silhouetted by the moonlight. He heard voices
murmuring. Then the figures seemed to fill the rectangular mouth of the
alley. There seemed to be six of them. They moved slowly, cautiously.
"Capons," whispered Lorenzo. "Afraid to charge us. Let us move to where
there is light to fight by."
He pulled Daoud after him. Daoud felt his head clearing. He could hear
better and, despite the darkness, see better. But he staggered as they
ran out of the alley.
They found themselves in a campiello, a courtyard surrounded by houses.
In the center, on a small pedestal, was a statue, one of their saint
idols, with arms outstretched. Daoud looked quickly around him. There
seemed to be no way out but the alleyway they had entered through.
He heard a loud thump to his right. A dark figure suddenly stood there.
Another thump on the left, and another in front. Men were jumping down
from the rooftops.
In a moment, four men in a rough semicircle faced Lorenzo and Daoud.
Blades gleamed silvery in the moonlight.
The six others who had been pursuing them rushed out of the alley.
Filled with a despairing rage, Daoud clenched his teeth and raised his
sword.