It could not be worse, Rachel thought. She could not be more degraded.
An old man, and a Tartar. Were the Tartars even human, she wondered, or
was she about to commit the further abominable sin of mating with an
animal?
The door had closed behind him with a terribly final sound, and he was
standing in front of it, showing his teeth, large and strong and very
white, in a broad grin.
She wondered if he could see her knees and hands trembling. If only she
had accepted Signora Tilia's offer to release her from this. Was it too
late? Could she rush past the Tartar to the door and pull it open and
run away? If she did that now, doubtless the Tartar would be insulted.
From what she knew about these creatures, it would be very dangerous to
make him angry.
_I will pretend to be sick. When he is not looking, I will stick my
finger down my throat and throw up. That will disgust him so, he will
leave me alone._
Or it might antagonize him enough to kill her. Her body broke out in a
cold sweat. Her eyes were shut, but she heard the monster coming closer.
She thought of what he would do to her, and her stomach heaved--she
would throw up even without trying to. She hoped he _would_ kill her.
Better that than his animal's thing inside her.
She opened her eyes, to see that he had stopped halfway between the
closed door and the bed.
Actually, he was not so hideous. He had a round brown face and bright
black eyes, and his beard was white, as Angelo's had been.
_Ah, Rachel, Rachel, the joy of my old age_, Angelo would say. _My beard
was white before you were born._
_He would not rejoice in his old age if he could see me now._
The Tartar's beard and mustache were not full and flowing, as Angelo's
had been, but stringy. The beard almost seemed like a false beard,
pasted on that small, sharp chin.
He said, "Buona sera, berra feeria." He had learned some Italian. But it
was not evening. It was almost morning. And what was he trying to
say--"bella figlia?" Beautiful daughter? He had probably asked someone
what he should say, and they had told him the wrong things.
"Buona sera, Mio Signore," she answered, inclining her head slightly.
Her voice was a terrified whisper. When she heard how frightened she
sounded, she became more frightened still and huddled into the farthest
corner of the bed, wishing she could squeeze through a crack in the wall
beside her and disappear.
The Tartar tapped his chest, smiling and nodding. "John." He wore a
crimson silk tunic that fell to his knees, and over it a pale green
gown, open in front, with wide sleeves. When she had stood by a window
in the cardinal's palazzo and watched the Tartars' arrival in Orvieto,
he and the other Tartar had worn foreign-looking silk robes, blood red,
covered with blue birds with long golden tails. Now he was dressed like
an Italian.
He was still nodding at her, with a questioning look on his face. He
wanted her to say her name.
"Rachel," she said, touching her chest. How small her breasts were, she
thought. He could not possibly want a girl with such small breasts. He
certainly would not want to devour them. She felt sick to her stomach
again.
"Reicho. Buona sera, Reicho." He could not pronounce the letter _l_.
"Buona sera, John," she answered. She was about to smile, but she
checked herself. If she seemed to be encouraging him, he would come at
her. Cold sweat broke out over her skin.
_He is going to come at me anyway._
A silver pitcher of wine with two silver goblets stood on a small
marble-topped table beside the bed. Wine might make this easier for her.
Except that too much wine would make her sick. Well, was that not what
she wanted? She stretched a trembling hand toward it.
"Will you take some wine, Messer John?" _Where on earth did he get a
name like John?_
She poured the wine, carefully filling the goblets only two-thirds full
so her trembling hands would not spill their contents.
The Tartar crossed the room and sat in the round-bottomed chair Tilia
had occupied a short while earlier. Rachel held out a goblet to him, and
her hand shook so badly she almost dropped it. He did not seem to
notice. Maybe he was used to being waited on by trembling women. He
smiled and nodded.
Tilia was watching all this, Rachel remembered. She drained her cup
quickly, the silver giving the wine a slightly metallic taste. She
poured a second cup for herself, and looked at him. He barely sipped
from his goblet before setting it on the table, holding his hand palm
down over it. Too bad, she thought. She had heard that men who drank too
much could not get stiff enough to go into women.
John started talking to her in his own tongue. He spoke for a long time
with many gestures, some toward himself, some toward her. She tried
desperately to guess what he was saying. She did not want to respond the
wrong way and anger him.
He seemed quite at ease, and he laughed occasionally, as if he were
telling her funny stories that amused him as well. She saw webs of fine
wrinkles in the brown skin around his eyes and thought, _He could be
older than Angelo_.
He began to make a strange sound, a long-drawn-out moan. Perhaps he was
in pain. Perhaps _he_ was going to be sick. Her heart leapt hopefully.
Then the moan changed pitch, and his mouth began to shape words. They
must be Tartar words. He was singing to her. It was unmistakably a song,
but it was strange and shrill to her ears. She almost burst out
laughing, but immediately felt terror at the thought of offending him.
It began to dawn on her, though, that John was not behaving like a
brute, as she had feared he would when she first saw him in the doorway.
If she looked behind the black slits that were his eyes, under the
tanned-leather skin, he seemed a pleasant old man. His language might be
gibberish to her, but it was clear that he was trying to entertain her,
even woo her.
But she hated the thought of what he was trying to woo her _for_.
He ended his song by clapping his hands rhythmically--she counted nine
handclaps. He followed that with more eager smiles and nods. He actually
wanted to know whether she liked his song. She relaxed a bit.
She smiled and nodded back. "Yes. Very good, John. Che bello!" Perhaps
she could get him to sing more, and put off the moment she dreaded.
But he stood up with a look on his face that froze her heart in her
chest. There was nothing ferocious or cruel in it or even lustful. There
was neither kindness nor pity in it, nor anything that recognized her as
a person. It was the satisfied smile of a man looking upon a possession.
He slipped off the wide-sleeved gown and unbuckled his belt. She began
to tremble uncontrollably.
* * * * *
Daoud sat slumped with exhaustion on the carpeted floor of Ugolini's
cabinet. The long night just past had drained him of all his energy. He
wanted to sleep, but first he must see to it that Ugolini made good use
of the advantage they had gained at the contessa's reception.
A strong, rich, familiar smell filtered into his nostrils, and his head
lifted, as if a powerful hand had gripped it. The door opened, and a
servant carried in a tray laden with six small porcelain cups, one each
for Ugolini, Daoud, Sophia, and Lorenzo and two extra, as well as two
pitchers. Ugolini pushed aside a pile of parchment on his work table,
and the servant set the tray down.
As the door closed behind the servant, Daoud drew a deep breath to
identify the smell and felt a glow of surprised pleasure.
"Is it possible?" he said to Ugolini. "You have found kaviyeh?"
Ugolini, sitting in the big chair behind his work table, just his head
and shoulders showing, smiled benignly. "You may hate the Tartars for
invading the Islamic lands, my friend, but it means that we Christians
can now trade with that part of the world. The Venetians have been
importing the beans from the uplands of Persia in small--and very
expensive--quantities. I was saving this for a special occasion. This
morning, after your triumph over the Tartars and your narrow escape from
death, seemed appropriate."
Daoud found the strength to stand up and pour the steaming black liquid
from the pitcher into a cup. He held the cup to his face with both hands
and sniffed deeply. He felt happier than he had in a long time.
Sophia, sitting on a padded bench against the wall opposite Ugolini's
table, said, "What is that?" Daoud heard shrill alarm in her voice.
She must suspect it was some sort of drug, thought Daoud with
amusement.
The cardinal chuckled amiably. "Only a beverage, my dear. Long used in
the Orient by sages and poets. It produces a heightened state of
alertness and vigor."
Daoud sipped the hot liquid. The taste was wondrously bracing after
months of deprivation, but it was not quite strong enough.
"This is very good, and I am your grateful slave forever," he said. "But
you should tell your servants to boil it longer."
Having sensed that Sophia feared his pleasure, he wanted to share it
with her that she might see how harmless it was. He went to her and held
out his cup.
"Try this. Be careful, the cup is hot."
She took the cup from him, her fingers brushing his. He felt a tingle in
his arm. She raised the cup, sniffed suspiciously and grimaced, but took
a small sip.
He was disappointed to see her mouth pucker. She did not like it. Well,
he could not expect her to take to it at once. He had been drinking it
ever since he was a child. Even his crusader family had drunk kaviyeh.
"A very interesting taste," she said, handing back the cup. A Byzantine
comment, he thought. He heard Lorenzo chuckle.
A pang of jealousy shot through him. He could not expect her to like
kaviyeh any more than he could expect her to love him. Especially not
after she had been alone in the Monaldeschi atrium with that damned
French count.
His longing for Sophia made his heart ache. If only he could have her
for himself, and not be forced to throw her at Simon de Gobignon. But
she was no more his than that emerald Baibars had entrusted to him.
Resignedly he told himself he must find out what she had accomplished.
"How did you deal with the Frankish count?"
"As you wished me to."
He walked back to the cardinal's table and turned to face her. Her amber
eyes were fixed on him. She must have been watching him cross the room.
"Does he want to see you again?" David demanded.
She shrugged. "He did when I left him. But by now he and Cardinal de
Verceuil will have talked together and may well realize my part in what
we did to them."
"Well," said Ugolini, rubbing his hands together. "There will be no more
need for you to pursue Count Simon, my dear, or for Messer Lorenzo to
play backgammon with the French cardinal. And no need for our
illustrious David to risk further verbal jousting with the Tartars."
Daoud felt a stab of exasperation. Just as he had feared, Ugolini wanted
to believe that with last night's triumph over the Tartars, their work
was done. Would he be able to persuade the cardinal to realize this was
only the beginning of a long struggle--one in which he, Ugolini, must
play the chief part?
"De Verceuil is a clever but sloppy player," Lorenzo interjected. "He
kept leaving blots less than six points away from me. But I managed to
lose eighty florins to him. That kept him interested. Once he decided I
was not a skillful player, he kept doubling the stakes and pressing me
to do the same when the choice was mine." He went over to Ugolini's work
table and poured himself a cup of kaviyeh.
Ugolini laughed. "He must now think his winnings eighty costly florins
indeed." He filled a cup from another pitcher, sprang up, and carried
the cup across the room to Sophia.
"You will enjoy this spiced milk more than the Muslim kaviyeh. It is my
favorite morning drink."
"You think it is all over, then, Cardinal?" Daoud growled. "I can go
away and leave you in peace--and richer?"
From the suddenly outraged face Ugolini turned toward him, Daoud thought
the cardinal might well be wishing the Filippeschi had finished him off.
"Was last night not a victory?" the cardinal asked in a choked voice.
"Do you know the difference between winning a battle and winning a war?"
"What more can the French do?" said Ugolini.
"We must talk about that," said Daoud. "Even though, in spite of this
good kaviyeh, my body screams for rest." He drained the cup, put it
down, and stretched his arms. With difficulty he brought his anger under
control. He must win Ugolini, not turn him into an enemy.
Ugolini had sat down in the high-backed chair behind his work table. His
slender fingers restlessly polished the dome of the skull with the
diagram painted on its cranium that lay before him. He looked as gloomy
as if he were contemplating the day when he himself would be reduced to
bones. Lorenzo quietly got up and poured himself another cup of kaviyeh.
Daoud turned to Sophia. "How do you think de Gobignon feels toward
you?" He hated to ask the question. He watched her face closely. What he
really wanted to know was how _she_ felt about de Gobignon.
Her eyes were heavy-lidded. Even with Hashishiyya-trained senses, he
could not guess what was behind that damnably unrevealing mask.
"I think I persuaded him that the cardinal's niece neither knows nor
cares anything about alliances and crusades. I--believe he could come to
love me."
Rage throbbed in his temples. What, in his sheltered existence, could
the young count have learned of love?
"Love you? Unlikely," Daoud challenged her.
He saw with quick regret that he had hurt her feelings. She recoiled as
if struck.
"Do you not think me worthy of a nobleman's love?"
Daoud crossed the room in three quick steps and stood over her. "Such
pampered creatures as he are not capable of love."
The mask was back. She shrugged.
"Love or lust, he is drawn to me. Do you mean to make some use of it?"
"Send him a note by one of the cardinal's servants asking him to meet
with you in a few days' time." Daoud turned and walked to the celestial
globe beside Ugolini's table and spun it absently as he studied Sophia.
"Let him pick the place, so he feels secure."
Again he had a glimpse through the mask. Her eyes widened in fear. She
thought he meant to kill de Gobignon. That angered him. Did she care so
much for the Frenchman, then, that his possible death made her lose her
composure?
To Daoud's surprise, Ugolini jumped from his chair and advanced on him,
shaking his finger and crying, "All of France will be down on us like an
avalanche if you harm that boy."
Daoud checked an impulse to laugh. Ugolini was such a comical figure in
the flapping white robe he had donned on returning to his mansion.
To Daoud, who had lived most of his life among men for whom death was as
common as fear was rare, the little man's tendency to panic seemed
contemptible. But, anew, he reminded himself that he needed Ugolini and
must treat him with respect.
"Please, Your Eminence," he said. "If I meant to have de Gobignon
killed, I would not involve Sophia. I want her to tell him what we are
supposedly doing. I hope to create conflict among the supporters of the
alliance."
"But Sophia takes a great risk meeting with him," said Ugolini. "What if
de Gobignon attempts to force the truth out of her?"
The thought of de Gobignon laying violent hands on Sophia angered Daoud,
and he spoke impulsively.
"_Then_ I will kill him."
"God help us!" Ugolini went back to his work table and sat down behind
it, his hands over his face.
At once Daoud regretted what he had said. But was there no way to
instill courage into this man?
"There is much work for you to do, Cardinal," he said. "You must not
falter now."
"Then let there be no more talk of killing," said Ugolini fiercely,
taking his hands from his face.
Daoud poured himself another cup of kaviyeh and stood looking down at
Ugolini.
"With so much at stake, surely you know I would not do anything rash."
"You need not think of _doing anything_," Ugolini said, a plea in his
eyes. "As long as the pope delays his decision about the Tartars, your
people are safe."
True enough, Daoud thought. Delay was a large part of his mission. But,
despite what Ugolini might think, it was not enough. For the safety of
Islam, an alliance between Tartars and Christians must be made
impossible.
"Your Eminence, will it please you to visit the cardinals who heard the
Tartars condemn themselves last night?" He tried not to make it sound
like an order.
"I see no need for that," said Ugolini.
Of course, Daoud thought. The little cardinal's mind was so full of fear
that he could not see at all.
"But I am hoping that you can organize a delegation of cardinals to go
to the pope and urge him to give up the idea of an alliance with the
Tartars. After all, you are the cardinal camerlengo. Your word has
weight."
Ugolini made a bridge of his interlaced fingers and rested his forehead
against them, as if his head ached.
"I have attacked the Tartars at the pope's council." He spoke down at
his table, barely loud enough for Daoud to hear him. "I have introduced
you into the highest circles in Orvieto. I have let you recruit
criminals and instigate riots while you live in my mansion. I hear you
plotting murder." He looked up suddenly, wild-eyed. "Basta! Enough!"
Despair made Daoud feel weak. He knew this sick feeling came partly from
being awake all night, poisoning himself with al-koahl, and nearly
getting himself murdered. He told himself it did not matter how he felt.
He was Sufi-trained, and could control his feelings. He was a Mameluke,
and must remain on the attack.
But he chose not to meet Ugolini's refusal directly.
"I also hope that you will be able to persuade Fra Tomasso d'Aquino to
write an open letter, to the pope or to the King of France, denouncing
the Tartars. Copies of the letter can be circulated to men of influence
throughout Christendom."
Ugolini shook his head, whiskers fluttering. "Fra Tomasso is neutral and
wants to stay that way."
_But if I can, I intend to push Fra Tomasso away from his neutrality._
"Surely he could not have failed to be moved by what he heard last
night," said Daoud. "I could see that he was."
"It will take more than one incident to move Fra Tomasso," said Ugolini.
_Now I have him!_ Daoud glanced at Lorenzo, who nodded encouragingly.
Daoud leaned forward, pressing both hands on the table. "There! You
yourself have said the very thing I have been trying to tell you. Last
night was just one incident. It was not enough to move Fra Tomasso _or_
the cardinals _or_ the pope. We must do more. You can accomplish
everything we want by persuasion and cunning and subterfuge. If you do,
I will never have to put my hand to my dagger, and you will have nothing
to fear." He shook his open hand at Ugolini. "Take the lead yourself."
Ugolini sat staring at the skull while Daoud held his breath.
The little cardinal pulled at his whiskers and looked up at Daoud. "What
must I do?"
Daoud let his breath out. Strength surged back into his body, and
despair fled before it.
"Tell me," he said, "if Fra Tomasso were to turn against the Tartars,
what do you think the Franks would do about it?"
Ugolini frowned. "I think that then the only way to reach him would be
through the Dominicans. If his superiors commanded him to change his
opinion on the Tartars, or to be silent, he would have to obey."
"And who, of the alliance's chief supporters, would speak to the
Dominican order for the French?" Daoud pressed.
"Count Simon lacks the authority," Ugolini said. "Friar Mathieu is
eloquent and knows the Tartars well, but I cannot imagine that the chief
Dominicans would pay any attention to an ordinary Franciscan priest."
"What of de Verceuil?" Daoud asked.
Ugolini nodded. "As a cardinal, de Verceuil can speak as an equal to the
head of the Dominican order."
"Good," said Daoud. "That is what I hoped you would tell me." He turned
away from Ugolini. He had accomplished as much as he could for the
moment. Exhaustion struck him like a mace on the back of his head.
"Lorenzo, when you meet that bravo Sordello, tell him that I have
decided he and the three with him can join us. I am going to bed."
"I have a bad feeling about him," said Lorenzo.
Daoud paused to consider this. It was precisely for such advice that he
needed Lorenzo.
He put his hand on Lorenzo's shoulder. "If he is spying on us, we need
to know who sought to place him in our camp. Let him feel he is secure
with us. Then start keeping a close watch on him. See to whom he leads
us."
Daoud turned from Lorenzo to look at Sophia. She was looking at him
intently, but he could not tell what she was thinking or feeling. Tired
as he was, he wished she would come to bed with him. If only she were
willing. If only he could invite her.
* * * * *
Rachel lay with her face to the wall, crying silently. She wanted not to
weep because she was still afraid of offending the Tartar, even though
it was all over.
She realized that her gown was still above her waist, and she lifted her
hips to pull it down. But what was the point of modesty for her anymore?
Especially with this man, who had taken her virginity.
She heard the rustling of silk as he dressed behind her. He had not
taken all of his clothes off, just enough to bare his member. It had
been smaller than she imagined. Once, in a stable in Perugia, a boy had
shown himself to her and tried to rape her, but she had run away. That
stableboy's thing had been much bigger.
John said something to her, but she understood only his "Reicho." He was
probably telling her to stop crying.
Even though he had been kindly before getting into the bed with her, she
had expected that he would become like the wild, savage Tartars she had
heard about. His weight on top of her, even though he was a small man,
had frightened her, but he had entered her slowly, and stopped and
waited when she cried out. In the end it had been she, wanting in
desperation to get it over with, who finished the piercing by pressing
upward with her hips. His few quick thrusts and his shout of pleasure--a
drawn-out horseman's yell--followed in a moment. And that was all there
was to it.
She sobbed aloud suddenly and bit into the pillow. The thought that her
whole future had been decided by a moment that had not lasted even as
long as it takes to light a candle was too much to bear.
_Angelo would say I am not a good woman anymore._
The Tartar spoke again, and tapped her on the shoulder. His voice was
soft and kind. Quieting her sobs with one last, deep, shuddering sigh,
she rolled over to look at him. More smiles and nods from him. Yes, he
wanted to cheer her up. She sensed that he knew something about women,
and what he knew had come not just from rapes committed on the
battlefield. He must have a wife in the faraway land he came from, and
he must, long ago, have done to that wife what he had just done to
Rachel. More than one wife, she reminded herself, and more than one
deflowering, because according to Tilia, the Tartars took several wives,
as the Muslims did. He was probably a grandfather many times over back
in that land.
He stood beside the bed, fully dressed. He had even tucked back and
knotted his hair behind his head. His grin broadened when she looked at
him. Rachel had not seen a Jewish or a Christian man as old as John with
such good teeth.
He untied a small bag from his belt. He held it out to her. Should she
take it? Of course she should. Was not getting paid the whole point of
what she had just gone through? Was not money what her body was to be
traded for from now on?
"Thank you, Messer John," she said, and reached out her hand. But he
came closer and rubbed the soft leather of the bag against her cheeks,
to dry her tears. She understood what he was trying to tell her--that
this money should pay her for her pain. Being a pagan, he could not
understand the greater pain of her soul because she had sinned, because
she had shamed her family and dishonored herself forever.
_But I have no family--none living. That is why I am here._
John put the bag into her hand and closed her fingers over it, then
pushed her hand against her chest. The bag was very heavy for its small
size. He frowned, put his finger to his lips, and waved his hand. He was
trying to tell her, she thought, that this was a special present for
her, that she was not to tell Madama Tilia about it. He did not know
that Tilia had been watching everything they had done together.
He pressed the callused palm of his hand against her cheek and said
something, then turned and quickly walked out of the room.
And Rachel was alone with her desolation. She wanted to sleep. There
were no windows in this room, but it must have been morning by now. She
realized that she did not feel sleepy, although she was tired. She felt
a dull ache down inside herself, where he had broken the seal of her
virginity. The bag of money lay heavy in her lap. Perhaps if she drank
some wine it would help her sleep.
She heard men's voices, loud and rough, in other parts of the house. A
man laughed, and then a woman laughed. How many men had come with the
Tartar? She felt too tired even to crawl to the edge of the bed and pour
herself the wine. She picked up the money and pushed it under a pillow.
Perhaps Tilia had not seen him give it to her. She had done this for
money, and she ought to get as much as she could for it.
The door swung open and Tilia was standing there, her wide mouth
stretched in a broad smile, and her hands rose in benediction. "You were
just what he wanted. He seemed most pleased."