Tilia eyed Daoud apprehensively. "Is it not as I have said--she is well
and happy?" She lifted the pectoral cross to raise its gold chain away
from her bosom and mop her flesh with a square of pale green silk. He
remembered the blade in the cross, and wondered if she was afraid he
might attack her.
He wished he could hate her for what had happened to Rachel. But all
Tilia had done was introduce Rachel to a way of life that Tilia herself
had found rewarding.
"She is as well as I could have hoped," he said, hearing in his own
voice the deadness he had heard in Rachel's. He sat down heavily on a
divan.
Lorenzo looked at him searchingly. His big mustache hid his mouth when
it was in repose, but his eyes were wide, and they glistened wetly in
the light of the one candle that illuminated this small room. The
Sicilian's hands lay limp in his lap, the hands of a man in pain and
unable to do anything about it.
Through a peephole Daoud saw that Sordello had awakened. The gray-haired
bravo was staring about him in wonder, only six feet away from Daoud's
eye, while Maiga gently pressed his shoulders back against the divan,
Orenetta stroked his chest and whispered to him, and Caterina's blond
head rose and fell between his legs.
Francesca sat on the divan beside Daoud, offering him a slice of kid. He
took it and chewed it, but even though Tilia had cooked and seasoned it
perfectly, it was tasteless to him.
It was not only Rachel's fate that troubled him, he realized. It was
what was happening on the other side of this wall--those three lovely
women ministering like houris of paradise to that old ruffian. They
would do it with skill and even with the appearance of enthusiasm
because they had no choice. They did not even think of choosing. They
just did as they were told. Their orders came, through Tilia, from
Daoud. Francesca, here beside him, would do whatever he wanted, not
because it was what _she_ wanted, but because she, too, had no choice.
And he had never really thought what it meant for women to live this way
until he saw, tonight, what had happened to Rachel.
_God is a flame_, Sheikh Saadi used to say, _and each human soul a spark
from that flame. When we treat our brother or sister like a thing, we
trample God Himself._
They were all slaves in this house of Tilia's. He had sent Rachel here
to become a slave.
_I, too, was once a slave._
But as a full-fledged Mameluke he was free. These women did not have
that way of escape. As long as they could, they must perform the act of
love, as it was called, with whoever paid them, or starve.
Baibars had done well to close the brothels of El Kahira. It was the
very meaning of love that it was freely given. Love was free submission
to another, just as Islam was free submission to God. Daoud had first
experienced love when he and Nicetas gave their bodies to each other.
And later with Blossoming Reed, even though theirs was an arranged
marriage, that, too, was love.
He could not lie with Francesca tonight. It would be too much like lying
with Rachel. He could not watch what Orenetta, Caterina, and Maiga would
do with Sordello. The thing he was having them do to Sordello was an
abomination. Despicable though Sordello was, he, too, had a soul, and
tonight Daoud was trampling upon God in the person of Sordello.
And yet he must see that all went as planned tonight. Did he want his
homeland destroyed?
_But I have to get away from here._
He stood up suddenly. "I must go back to Cardinal Ugolini's." Tilia,
Lorenzo, and Francesca stared at him.
Tilia recovered first. "But you were to stay the night here. What
about--" She gestured toward the wall.
Daoud shook his head. "I am not needed. And I have an important matter
to discuss with Ugolini."
"Which you just remembered," Lorenzo said, eyeing him sourly.
Daoud pressed his lips together. "Those three women know what to do.
There is no need for anyone to intervene unless he starts to resist. And
then you can kill him as easily as I can."
Lorenzo stood up and bowed formally. "Thank you for your trust,
Messere."
_If I am right in thinking that he hates this as much as I do, then he
hates me for making him stay here._
* * * * *
The thump of Daoud's boots on the cobblestones echoed against the fronts
of the huddled houses. Armed with sword and dagger, his head clear, and
keeping to the wider streets, Daoud felt safe from attack, even though
it was well past midnight. Besides, the Filippeschi had been won over,
so he need no longer fear them. Fear, he thought, was the wrong word for
it. Tonight he would welcome battle.
And he had the Scorpion with him tonight. He no longer ever made the
mistake of going about in the streets of Orvieto at night without
carrying the Scorpion in a concealed pocket in his cloak.
He walked past the cathedral church of San Giovenale, and once again
from the open doors heard the pale voices of the priests of the
cathedral chapter. A heavy odor of incense, carried on the moist night
air, filled his nostrils.
Pain crushed his heart as he passed beyond the pool of light that
spilled out the cathedral door. He seemed to feel a heavy hand on his
shoulder, and looked up. Conjured up from memory, his blond father
appeared to tower over him, a red cross on the shoulder of his white
mantle. A warm hand gripped Daoud's, and his mother, her red-gold hair
bound with pearls, smiled down at him. Her dress was blue, like the
dress she had died in.
_What memories torment Rachel_, he wondered.
* * * * *
Just ahead of him, the narrow street opened into the broader one that
ran past Cardinal Ugolini's mansion. He had just passed an inn called
Vesuvio, after the burning mountain near Napoli, when a door opened
softly behind him. Very softly, but it did not escape his trained ear.
He glanced back and saw the upper half of a divided door mate with its
lower half.
_Watching for me?_ That was unlikely, because a spy watching for him
would have had no idea when to expect him and would have had to stand by
that door all night. He looked back again at the doorway and then at the
cardinal's residence. The street was wide enough to allow a person
standing in the doorway of the inn a good view of the front of the
mansion.
He walked out into the square and turned to the right so that he could
no longer be seen from the inn. Behind a filmy curtain on the third
story of the mansion shone a yellow glow. Sophia's room. Was that Simon
de Gobignon in the inn doorway?
No, it was not, because now he saw de Gobignon. The unmistakable tall
figure was standing in the candlelit window behind the curtain. A thin
arm pushed the curtain back, and though the light was behind de
Gobignon, Daoud could see the Frenchman plainly, looking down into the
square. Even though he was sure de Gobignon could not see him, Daoud
stepped farther back into the shadows.
De Gobignon in Sophia's room. Daoud clenched his fists, and his lips
drew back in a snarl.
The Scorpion would not carry that far. No, but he could stride closer in
an instant, aim at that spidery figure silhouetted against Sophia's
lighted window, and bring down his enemy with a single bolt.
_Why am I thinking such a thing?_
Was he going mad? Sophia would let Simon make love to her, and in his
passion he would tell her much. Perhaps Daoud could find out more about
why Simon had sent Sordello into his camp. Perhaps Simon would give
Sophia some hint about the countermove he must be planning. Meanwhile
Sophia would trick Simon into thinking that Fra Tomasso had turned
against the alliance.
Killing Simon would be foolishness. Until now the mishaps that had
befallen the French and the Tartars had seemed accidental. Murder Simon,
and his enemies would have proof that there were plotters in Orvieto,
and they would seek them out. And the first place they would look would
be the place where Simon was killed, the establishment of Cardinal
Ugolini, the chief opponent of the Tartar-Christian alliance.
Still, Daoud felt his blood seethe. He remembered a summer night over
ten years before, when he had bribed a slave and slipped through an
unlocked gate into the arms of Ayesha, the young wife of Emir Tughril
al-Din, then his commanding officer. They had lain together all that
night on the roof of the mansion of Tughril al-Din, bathed in sweat, and
the sweet terror of the blades that would hew his naked body to pieces
if they were discovered goaded him into plunging into her again and
again. Only the moon and stars bore witness that he was enjoying the
wife of his commander, the man who ordered him about and punished him
when he made an error, the man who had the power of life and death over
him. Toward dawn, the delight of it bubbled up in his throat and he
laughed so loudly that the small Circassian girl put her hand over his
mouth.
_And now he does to me that which I did to Tughril al-Din._
Daoud shook his head. Nonsense. Sophia was not his wife, and it was for
this very purpose, to seduce, corrupt, and spy upon the enemy, that he
had brought her here.
_To use her, as I used Rachel and the women at Tilia's. First the Tartar
took Rachel, and now de Gobignon takes Sophia. And I am nothing but a
slave and a panderer._
A second silhouetted figure appeared beside Simon, much shorter, with
unbound hair falling in waves and a narrow waist. Daoud saw Sophia rest
her hand on his shoulder. A moment later she took the Frenchman's hand,
and they both turned away from the window. The curtain fell back in
place behind them.
_She leads him to bed!_
Daoud was shaking with rage. Every muscle in his body ached to kill de
Gobignon.
_Oh, God, give me the chance to destroy him!_
He heard another sound to his left, the scrape of a boot on
cobblestones. His hand darting to his sword, he glanced toward the
street he had just passed through. Nothing.
De Gobignon had brought a friend or servant with him. The friend was
waiting at that inn, where he could watch the front of Ugolini's
mansion, and, perhaps, signal to de Gobignon as dawn approached.
De Gobignon's friend had been watching Daoud. He must be all in a sweat,
knowing that Daoud had seen the young count in Sophia's window. He would
expect Daoud to raise an alarm. And if Daoud did not, then de Gobignon
would guess that David of Trebizond _approved_ Simon's making love to
the cardinal's niece. And from that it would only be a step to realizing
that David and Sophia must be plotting together.
It would extinguish any suspicion of Sophia the count might have if
Daoud were to rush into the mansion, raise an alarm, and pursue Simon.
But if de Gobignon were caught, it would mean a scandal. His French
compatriots would certainly do all they could to stop him from seeing
Sophia again.
Again Daoud heard the scrape of a boot sole on the stone of the street.
He drew farther back under the overhanging upper story of a house facing
the mansion. Now de Gobignon's man could not see him without showing
himself.
There was only one thing to do. And it gave Daoud grim satisfaction to
realize it.
_I cannot kill Simon de Gobignon, but I have to kill his man._
He drew the Scorpion from its pocket in the hem of his cloak. Quickly
and silently he unfolded it. A leather case held a sting for the
Scorpion, a steel dart half again as long as his finger, coated with the
same paste he had used to render Sordello unconscious. He pulled the
string of twisted rawhide back with his fist, slipped the dart into
place.
The Frank took a step out of hiding. Daoud saw him as a big shadow at
the corner of the building. He imagined the Frank's thoughts. He must be
trying desperately to think of some way to warn his master before the
cardinal's guards were roused.
Daoud raised the Scorpion, but the darkness made the shot difficult. De
Gobignon's man was too hard to see.
"Pardonnez-moi, Messire," he said in the language he had not used since
he was ten. "I have a message for Monseigneur the Count de Gobignon." He
spoke in as casual and friendly a tone as he could muster.
Daoud was close enough now to see that the man's hand was on his sword
hilt.
"Why do you speak of the count to me?" The voice was young.
"Because you are his man," said Daoud, and he thumbed the notched wheel
that held the bowstring in place. The string thrummed, the dowels sprang
forward, and the dart buried itself in the Frenchman's body.
To avoid hitting breastbone or rib, Daoud had aimed for the stomach.
The Frank uttered a cry of pain and anger, and his left hand clutched at
his middle as his right hand drew his sword.
"You Greek bastard!" he groaned, and fell first to his knees, then on
his face. So he had recognized him as David of Trebizond. He must surely
die.
Daoud rolled the unconscious man over on his back. His fingers quickly
found the dart. Just a bit of it protruded from the Frank's stomach; his
fall had driven it deeper. Daoud pulled the dart out, keeping his finger
on the wound. He laid the dart on the ground and drew his dagger. He
drove it upward just below the breastbone, striking the heart. The man's
torso jerked violently, the body trying to save itself even though the
mind was asleep. As Daoud pulled the blade out, blood flowed out after
it, warm on his hand. He whispered a curse and wiped his hand and his
blade on the man's tunic.
This must look like a street stabbing, a man murdered for his purse.
Daoud thrust his dagger into the body again, this time in the place
where the dart had gone in.
He felt for a heartbeat and found none. He sheathed his dagger, felt for
the dart on the street beside the Frank, and put it back in its case.
Case and Scorpion went back in the hidden pocket in his cloak.
The Frank's dead body was heavy as he dragged it into the deeper
darkness under the overhang of the nearest house. He fumbled about the
dead man until he found his purse, a small one and not very heavy, and
tucked it into his own belt. The pottery maker would be shocked in the
morning to find a robbed and murdered man on his doorstep.
Had anyone seen? The houses around the square were dark and silent as so
many stone tombs. There was only that one light in the third-floor
window of Ugolini's mansion.
He could not enter the mansion now, with blood on him. Whoever unlocked
the gate for him would be sure to connect him with the murdered man who
would be found in the morning. Orvieto's authorities would be
questioning everyone, and Ugolini could not control what his servants
might say.
Back to Tilia's, then.
He chose another street leading out of the square so as not to pass the
inn where de Gobignon's man had been on watch. As he walked, he cast his
mind back over what he had done. The killing left him troubled.
Saadi had taught him never to waste human life. _To wage war is a holy
obligation. But have a care that you kill, not with a small soul, but
with a great soul._
This had been a necessary murder, Daoud thought. This young Frank had to
die that Islam might be saved from infidel hordes of East and West. But,
looking into his heart, Daoud knew that he had, indeed, killed with a
small soul. He had been forced to kill de Gobignon's man, but he had
also wanted to, and he had felt unworthy triumph over Simon de Gobignon.
It had not even been an honorable fight. The Frank had no chance.
_Purify my heart, oh, God_, he prayed as he walked back to Tilia
Caballo's brothel.