This was a fearsome place, thought Daoud as he gazed around the
underground chamber hewn out of the yellow tufa on which the building
stood. Lit with torches, its vault was festooned with ropes and chains,
one wall lined with whips, rods, and scourges hanging from hooks, pokers
and branding irons heating in smoking braziers, a rack in one corner, a
ring of wood and iron six feet in diameter suspended in the center of
the room, on which a man could be spread-eagled. A veritable bazaar of
torture instruments. Its door was of solid oak reinforced with
criss-crossed strips of iron, designed to dash any hope of escape.
Daoud sat in a thronelike chair painted black--Tilia said it had once
belonged to a pope--on a raised platform against a wall. If the damned
chair had a few cushions in it, it might almost be comfortable. This
place, Tilia had told him, was for patrons of hers who liked to
torture--or be tortured.
It was perfect for his purpose. But could he himself be as perfect as
the room? This was a hard and wily man he had to deal with tonight. It
would be difficult to dominate him.
Beside Daoud, a preparation of wine, hashish, and the distilled juice of
the Anatolian poppy simmered in a pot held on a metal tripod over a
candle flame. He sniffed the faint steam that rose from the warm potion.
He warned himself to do no more sniffing, or he would be unable to
conduct the night's proceedings with a clear head. He glanced down at
one broad arm of the throne, where a small brass bowl lay. In the dish
rested a steel needle as long as a forefinger, its tip covered with a
black paste.
A nervous anticipation tingled in the pit of his stomach, but he held
himself very still.
Daoud heard Lorenzo's voice, and a moment later the oak-and-iron door
swung open. A man stumbled through, his head covered with a black hood,
his hands tied behind him, his ankles chained close together with
hobble-gyves. Two of Tilia's mute black slaves held his arms. Behind him
walked Lorenzo, a broad-bladed dagger held at waist level.
Daoud sat straighter in the throne, resting his hands on the arms. The
door boomed shut, and at Lorenzo's command the slaves untied the
prisoner's wrists and pulled the hood off his head.
Sordello stood before Daoud, blinking and staring angrily around him.
Daoud watched, pleased, as the sight of the irons and chains and
scourges bore in on Sordello and the anger on the bravo's face changed
to alarm.
"Why have you done this to me? What the devil is this place?"
An appropriate question, Daoud thought. "You are in hell," he said.
Sordello squinted at Daoud. "And who are you supposed to be, Messer
David, the Prince of Darkness? Is this some sort of miracle play?"
The man's defiance dismayed Daoud. He had hoped that the mere sight of
the chamber would set Sordello to babbling and begging. He needed to be
frightened more.
"Have them chain him to the ring, Lorenzo."
Sordello aimed a kick at one of the slaves following Lorenzo's orders.
The African gave Sordello's arm a quick twist and got a howl of pain out
of him. Soon the aging bravo, arms stretched out, legs spread apart, was
suspended upright in the great hoop. The ring of iron hung from the
ceiling on a single chain wrapped around a huge beam, allowing it to
rotate slowly. Daoud imagined how helpless Sordello must feel hanging
there.
Lorenzo took hold of the ring and gave it a spin. Face and back, face
and back, face and back, Sordello whirled before Daoud. His eyes bulged.
"Figlii di cagne!" he shouted.
_Still more angry than frightened. But perhaps he is just good at
concealing his fear._
Daoud made a small hand gesture, and Lorenzo stopped the spin of the
ring so that Sordello was facing Daoud.
Daoud studied Sordello, looking for the subtle signs that would reveal
his true feelings. His eyes gleamed like a caged hyena's, full of hatred
for Daoud.
Lorenzo had kept Sordello locked in a pitch-black cubicle in Cardinal
Ugolini's mansion for a day and a night before bringing him here. Daoud
studied the man. It was obvious from his pallor, his red-rimmed
eyelids, and his sagging mouth that Sordello had lain awake much of the
time in the darkness. Daoud could see the fear, too, in the clenching
and unclenching of Sordello's jaw muscles.
Daoud flicked a finger at Lorenzo. "Read the love song you found on this
trovatore when you seized him."
Lorenzo unfolded a square scrap of parchment and read:
Your Magnificence:
On Thursday last Donna Sophia left the Cardinal's mansion alone, on
foot and heavily veiled. As she clearly did not want to be seen,
your servant thought much was to be gained by following her, and so
did. I regret to say she spent the afternoon wandering in the
craftsmen's market, shopping for gloves, purses, and other
adornments. Before Nones she went to the Church of Sant' Andrea,
where she prayed a while, then went to Confession. Your servant
attempted to approach close enough to overhear, but was unable to do
so without being seen.
Lorenzo looked up and shook his head. "What a furfante you are! Trying
to eavesdrop on penitents." He went on with the reading.
David of Trebizond has spent his days riding about Orvieto, meeting
with the fattori of various trading houses that deal in silks and
spices. Your servant adds a list below. The cardinal sleeps most of
the day and works through the night behind the locked door of his
cabinet on the top floor of the palazzo. Sometimes he mounts to the
roof and studies the stars with the aid of magical instruments. Of
the servant Giancarlo I am unable to make report, having not seen
him all this week.
Lorenzo laughed. "That is the only true statement in this list of lies.
You did not see me all week because I have been constantly at _your_
back."
Sordello spat at Lorenzo's feet. "Ladruncolo! Sneak!" At this Lorenzo
and Daoud broke into laughter, while Sordello glared at them helplessly.
The hoop on which he was splayed turned slowly one way and then back the
other.
"You are indignant at being spied upon?" Lorenzo chuckled. "Then imagine
how we feel. And what is worse, you do not even tell the truth about
us."
"I piss in your teeth," Sordello snarled.
"For instance, what you write about Madonna Sophia," Lorenzo went on,
unperturbed. "You lost her a mere three streets from the cardinal's
mansion. She knew you were following her and took pains to rid herself
of your unwanted attentions. But you could not admit to your master what
a buffone you are, so you made up all that about her buying gloves in
the bazaar and going to church."
Actually, Daoud thought, that was the afternoon Sophia had come here, to
Tilia's house, to see Rachel, and it would have been disastrous if
Sordello had followed her. They would then have had to kill him, which
would have been unfortunate, since this way of handling him was so much
better.
Of course, they might still have to kill him. He already knew enough
about them to send them all to the stake if he ever spoke out. He must
be brought under control, to serve their purposes, or he must quietly
disappear.
"So, you not only spy on us, but you lie about us," said Daoud. "And to
whom do you send these lies? When the Bulgarian woman Ana takes your
weekly reports back to the Palazzo Monaldeschi, to whom does she deliver
them? De Verceuil? De Gobignon?"
"Go peddle your silks and spices, Messer David." The man was so
ill-tempered he had not the sense to try to protect himself by hiding
his anger and defiance.
Daoud gritted his teeth in frustration. Sordello was not breaking
quickly enough.
Daoud sent Lorenzo a signal with two fingers. Lorenzo sprang at Sordello
with his blade, a dagger so big it was almost a short sword, and slashed
at his tunic, belt, and hose. The blacks grinned. Sordello roared his
protests. A last flick of the blade cut away his grimy loincloth. In a
moment Sordello hung naked on the ring, his shredded clothes hanging
from his ankles or lying on the flagstone floor. His body was wiry and
muscular, with only a small paunch at the waist. The flickering
torchlight picked out the shadows of scars crossing his chest and belly.
Daoud stared with curiosity and faint distaste at the uncircumcised
penis peeping from its thicket of grizzled hair.
Daoud put his fingertips together and casually crossed his legs,
lounging back in the throne, letting the contrast between his position
and Sordello's sink in. He prayed that the man might succumb. His soul
must be made of sand; how could it be otherwise?
The ring slowly rotated. Sordello twisted his head to look over his
shoulder at Daoud.
"If you kill me, he will know." There was the faintest quiver in his
voice.
Daoud chose not to ask the obvious question--who "he" was--but said,
keeping his voice soft and kindly, "What will he learn from your death,
Sordello?"
Before Sordello could answer, Lorenzo burst out, "We are not going to
kill him for a long while, are we, Messer David? You promised me I could
have some sport."
"Quiet, Giancarlo," said Daoud, narrowing his eyes. "You shall have your
sport."
"Why torture me? Why kill me?" There was a plea in Sordello's voice now.
"I have told nothing that could hurt you."
"You have told _us_ nothing, Sordello." Daoud stood up. The platform on
which the throne chair stood gave him impressive height, and the torches
high in the wall behind him threw his shadow across the room.
"I admire your fidelity to your master, whoever he is," Daoud said with
a smile. "What a pity he will never know about it. As I told you, this
is hell, and you are dead already. You will just vanish, like a bit of
rubbish washed out of the city by the rain. Your master will probably
think you deserted him, as your sort of wandering ladrone so often
does."
"I am not a highwayman!" Sordello's cry echoed against the stone vault.
"I am a man of honor. I am an educated man, a trovatore."
"You are feccia!" Lorenzo shouted, and slapped Sordello's face hard.
"For that I will one day slice open your guts," Sordello growled.
Exasperated, Daoud saw that hurting Sordello only made him angrier. If
they hurt him enough, certainly, they would have him begging for mercy,
but by then they might have injured him so badly he would be of no use
to them.
"Let him be, Giancarlo," Daoud snapped.
"I saved your life," Sordello said to Daoud. "I killed a man for you. Is
this how you repay me--letting this pig strip me and beat me?" His
narrowed eyes gave a hint of slyness. "I could be worth ten of this
Neapolitan mezzano to you."
"You dare call me a pimp!" Lorenzo lunged at Sordello again, this time
aiming the point of the huge dagger at his belly. Sordello twisted his
body in the chains and gave a cry of fright.
"Giancarlo!" Daoud shouted sternly. "Back!"
Sordello hung rigid in his chains. Sweat ran down his face. His whole
body was covered with sweat, glistening in the torchlight, and Daoud
suspected he would be cold to the touch. Sordello's eyes rolled from
Lorenzo, who stood frozen with the dagger outstretched, to Daoud and
back again. The two blacks stood behind Lorenzo, smiling broadly.
"You are worth nothing to me at the moment, Sordello, because you refuse
even to give me the one harmless piece of information I ask for. You
will not tell me who set you to spy on me. So I might as well give you
to Giancarlo here for his amusement." He held a hand out to Lorenzo, as
if giving him leave to proceed.
"It is Simon de Gobignon!" Sordello cried. "It is to him my messages
go."
Daoud's heart leapt with exultation, and he allowed himself a satisfied
little sigh. A flicker of a finger told Lorenzo to lower his knife.
Sordello had made the first surrender, on which all further success with
him depended.
But--de Gobignon. That was a surprise. Daoud had been sure it would be
Cardinal de Verceuil who would try to place a spy in his camp. A
Frankish knight like de Gobignon would prefer the frontal attack, the
pitched battle, to trickery. That was why the Franks were gradually
losing their grip on the land they called Outremer. The French cardinal
was another story. Daoud had seen in him a combination of pride,
ambition, and lack of scruple that would use any means to defeat an
enemy.
How to find out the truth? He ground his teeth.
"You are lying," Daoud said firmly. "It is Cardinal de Verceuil you
serve. Giancarlo--" Daoud gestured, and Lorenzo went over to the brazier
and slowly drew out an iron. The tip of it glowed red in the dim light
of the chamber. His teeth flashing white under his thick mustache,
Lorenzo advanced on Sordello.
"No! It is the truth!" Sordello shrieked, the chain that suspended the
hoop rattling as he tried to pull himself away from Lorenzo and the
smoking metal rod he held. As Lorenzo slowly approached, Sordello
babbled out a tale of having been sent to Venice by Charles d'Anjou,
brother of the King of France, to recruit and command archers for Count
Simon. He had gotten into a brawl and wounded an Armenian prince who had
come to Venice with the Tartars, and Simon had sent him away.
"I cannot serve Count Simon openly because the Armenians still want my
blood," Sordello explained. "So he set me to spy on you instead."
The frantic haste with which Sordello spilled out his story gave it the
sound of truth. This was going much better. Daoud's tense jaw muscles
were relaxing.
Daoud picked up the bowl with the needle in it, gestured Lorenzo back,
and slowly strolled across the chamber to Sordello. He gave the bowl to
Lorenzo to hold, and drew closer until his face was only a hand's width
from Sordello's, until he could smell the inner rot on the man's breath.
Sordello's eyes rolled sideways, trying to watch the needle in the bowl
Lorenzo was holding.
"What does de Gobignon say of me?" Daoud whispered. "What does he think
I am?"
"He thinks you are a foreigner brought here by Ugolini to thwart the
French plans for a crusade," Sordello gasped. "He says Ugolini is an
agent of the Hohenstaufen king. He thinks Giancarlo is gathering a band
of men to murder the Tartars. Please, for the love of God, do not hurt
me, Messere." His eyes would fall out of his head if he stared any
harder at the needle.
"Give me a candle, Giancarlo," said Daoud. He reached out without
looking, and Lorenzo pressed the lighted candle into his hand. Taking a
step back, he held the flame before Sordello's sweating face. His lips
trembling, Sordello turned his head away.
"Look at the flame, Sordello," said Daoud softly. "Just look at the
flame and listen to me. Look at the flame, and I will tell you what I
really am." Daoud passed the candle back and forth before Sordello's
face, murmuring reassurance. Sordello's eyes followed the candle.
He wondered if this would work. It seemed too much like magic. He had
seen it done by Hashishiyya imams, but he had never done it himself.
"I am a sorcerer, Sordello, a mighty wizard. I can pass through any
obstacle. I can see what people are doing thousands of leagues away. I
can bring the dead back to life. I told you that you are a dead man,
Sordello. You are truly dead, but you have nothing to fear, because my
power can bring you back to life."
The bravo hung lax in the chains, his half-shut eyes still moving from
right to left, following the candle flame. His knees had buckled and his
belly sagged.
Daoud handed the candle to Lorenzo and beckoned to one of the Africans,
who took the simmering pot of drugged wine from the tripod, holding it
by a wooden handle, and gave it to Daoud.
"Where are you, Sordello?"
"I am in hell."
"And what are you?"
"A dead man."
"And I?"
"A mighty wizard."
"Very good. Now drink this." Daoud felt the lip of the pot to make sure
it was not too hot, then brought it to Sordello's mouth. Obediently
Sordello lifted his chin and opened his lips, allowing Daoud to pour the
warm wine into his mouth, and then swallowed. Daoud poured more into him
and then gave the pot back to Tilia's servant.
"Now you will truly know my power, Sordello. Prepare yourself for the
most wonderful night of your life. You will make a journey from hell to
heaven. Close your eyes and raise your head." Lorenzo held out the brass
bowl with the needle, and Daoud took the needle, holding it firmly with
his thumb and first two fingers. Gesturing to Lorenzo to bring the
candle close to Sordello's throat, he searched out a vein just where the
neck met the shoulder.
"You can feel nothing. You can feel no pain at all."
Daoud took a deep breath and prayed to God to guide his hand. He jabbed
the needle into Sordello's neck. The bravo remained utterly motionless,
and Daoud heard Lorenzo gasp in amazement. Daoud left the needle stuck
in the pale, pink flesh. He watched Sordello closely and put his palm
before his lax mouth. He could feel Sordello's breath on his palm, slow
and steady, the breath of a sleeping man. After a time the craggy block
of a head fell forward, and the body hung limp in the chains.
So far, all was working as he had hoped. But the man was stronger than
he had thought. He had been harder to break. There was always the danger
that somewhere deep in his soul a part would remain free. Daoud had
heard of such things happening, of slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain
who suddenly rebelled. The methods of the Hashishiyya were not perfect.
He would have to chance it. It was in God's hands now.
"Are you sure he is not dead?" Lorenzo said in a low, awed voice.
"Look for yourself. He breathes. His heart beats."