The Saracen: Land of the Infidel

by Robert Shea

  V

  Keeping his face severe, Simon de Gobignon walked slowly past the sixknights lined up on the wharf. The men's faces were scarlet andglistening with sweat under their conical steel helmets. Simon feltrivulets running down his own back, under his padded cotton undershirt,mail hauberk, and surcoat.

  Gulls screamed overhead, and the smell of the salt sea and of rottingfish hung heavy in the warm air.

  Venice in July, Simon thought, was no place to be dressed in full battlegear.

  The two banners held by men-at-arms at the end of the line hung limply:the royal standard of France, gold fleurs-de-lis on an azure ground, andthat of Gobignon, gold crowns on purple.

  Simon reproached himself. He had brought his company down to thewaterfront too early, as soon as he had word that the galley bearing theTartar ambassadors from Cyprus was in the harbor. It was there, sureenough; he could see it, a long, dark shape a few hundred feet fromshore. But it rode at anchor while officials of the Most Serene Republicinspected it for diseases and registered its cargo, a task that hadalready taken hours while Simon and his men sweltered onshore.

  Behind the knights stood a lance of archers, forty men in four rows.They were talking and laughing among themselves in the Venetian dialect,which Simon could barely understand. While growing up he had learned thespeech of Sicily, but that was nearly a different language.

  The crossbowmen should not be chattering, Simon thought. It wasunmilitary. Besides, it irritated him and added to the tension of thisendless waiting.

  He took a step back and shouted, "Silencio!" The archers looked up, andhe saw more surprise and annoyance than respect in their faces. Someeyed him expectantly, as if they thought him about to make a speech. Heglared at the archers for what he felt was a suitable interval, thenturned away and walked out to the edge of the jetty, his thumbs hookedin his sword belt. He ignored the muttering that arose the moment heturned his back.

  "Scusi, Your Signory," said a rasping voice at his elbow. Simon turned.

  Andrea Sordello, capitano of the archers, smiled broadly at him,revealing a gap where one of his eye teeth should have been. The bridgeof his nose was smashed flat.

  "What is it, Sordello?" The capitano had met him in Venice with a letterof recommendation from Count Charles d'Anjou, brother of King Louis ofFrance, but a not-quite-hidden insolence in the manner of this bravomade Simon uneasy.

  "If Your Signory wishes to command the crossbowmen, perhaps it would bebetter to transmit your orders through me. The men do not understand whyyou silenced them just now. They are not used to being told to standlike statues for no reason."

  _And you would like to make yourself popular with them by disputing myorder, would you not?_

  "Tell them they have entered the service of the kingdom of France," hetold Sordello. "It is customary for French soldiers to maintain amilitary bearing and discipline."

  "Forgive me, Your Signory, but that may offend them."

  "It is not my duty to tell them what they want to hear but what they_must_ hear," said Simon. _Rather well put_, he thought to himself.

  "Si, Your Signory." Sordello walked away. He had a slight limp, Simonnoticed. The man had certainly been battered. Even so, Uncle Charles'sletter said he was a fine troubadour. Or trovatore, as they called themin Italy.

  "Monseigneur!" A shout broke in on his thoughts. Alain de Pirenne, hisclosest friend among the six Gobignon knights he had brought with him,was pointing out at the harbor. The two rows of oars on either side ofthe long-delayed galley were in motion. Even at this distance Simoncould hear the drumbeat and the overseer calling count. Simon had heardsongs comparing the oars of galleys to the wings of birds, and he couldsee the resemblance as the rows of oars, looking delicate as feathersfrom this distance, rose and fell over the water in unison.

  "Thank heaven," said Simon.

  "Indeed," said Alain. "I am starting to feel more like a baked pigeonthan a man."

  As the galley swung in to the wharf, ropes flying through the air tomake her fast to shore, Simon heard a sudden outcry behind him andjerked his head around.

  "Make way for the most serene! Make way for the doge!" runners shouted.Musicians blowing oliphants, cranking hurdy-gurdies, and pounding ondrums led a bright procession along the wharves. Two men in knee-lengthscarlet tunics stiff with gold braid held poles between which swung ahuge banner. On the banner a winged lion in gold strode across a greenbackground. Simon saw rows of gleaming helmets and naked swords heldupright, followed by ranks of men in glittering brocaded robes, emeraldand silver, maroon and gold. Towering over all was a huge sedan chairwith a gilded roof and cloth of gold curtains, followed by a troop ofmen with tall spears. A crowd of men and women in bright silk tunics andsatin gowns, laughing and chattering, brought up the rear.

  A man in an ankle-length gown, his cap heavy with gold thread,confronted Simon. He was, Simon recalled, a camerlengo who had beenpresent two weeks before when he had his brief audience with the dogeand presented his charter from King Louis.

  "Count, your troops are occupying the place needed by the doge, that hemay properly greet our guests. Move them, if you please." The "if youplease" was uttered in a tone so perfunctory as to be almost insulting.Simon's face burned and his muscles tensed, but when the ruler of Venicedemanded that he give way, he was in no position to quarrel. He bowedcurtly and turned to order his men to vacate the wharf.

  And so, after waiting for hours, Simon suddenly found himself watchingthe arrival of the ambassadors from behind ranks of Venetian archers farmore smartly turned out than his own mercenaries.

  Why, Simon wondered, had the doge not made a place for him in thiswelcoming ceremony? The slight made him feel angry at himself as much asat the doge.

  _It is me. Uncle Charles should have sent an older man, more able tocommand respect._

  First to come down the boarding ramp of the galley from Cyprus was afriar in a brown robe with a white cord wrapped around his waist. Thecrown of his scalp was shaved, and his beard was long and white. Hethrew himself on the ground and kissed it with a loud smacking sound. Herose and bowed to the doge's sedan chair.

  The doge of Venice, Rainerio Zeno, emerged through curtains held for himby two equerries in purple. Zeno was a very old, toothless man whoseblack eyes glittered like a raven's. His bald head was covered by awhite cap bordered with pearls. His gold-embroidered mantle looked stiffand hard as the shell of a beetle. Pages stood on either side of him,and he leaned heavily on their shoulders, using them as crutches. Thefriar bent and kissed Zeno's ring.

  Simon could not hear what the doge and the friar said to each other. Thefriar gestured toward the ship. Armed men--Simon counted ten ofthem--tramped down the boarding ramp and formed two lines leading to thedoge. They were short and swarthy, wearing red and black breastplates oflacquered leather and round steel helmets polished to a dazzling finish,topped with spikes. Bows were slung crosswise over their shoulders, andlong, curved swords hung from their belts. Were these Tartars, hewondered.

  Their swords looked very much like the one Simon wore. Simon's was anEgyptian scimitar, one of his most precious possessions, not because ofits jeweled hilt--a pearl set just behind the guard, a ruby at the endof the hilt, and a row of smaller precious stones all along thegrip--but because of the one who had given it to him. And yet, much ashe prized it, the scimitar hurt him each time he looked at it, remindinghim of his darkest secret, a secret known to only three living people.Simon's whole life, the scimitar reminded him, was built on a lie.

  And he had accepted this mission, in part, to expiate the shame he feltwhen he remembered that.

  Now Simon, feeling very much out of his depth, touched the hilt of hisscimitar for reassurance. But as he recalled that the sword had oncebelonged to a Saracen ruler, his heart leapt in fear.

  _One never knows when or how the Saracens may strike_, Count Charlesd'Anjou--Uncle Charles--had warned him. _The arrow from ambush ... thedagger that cuts the throat of a sleeping victim ... poison. When the
ycannot kill they try to corrupt, with gold and lies. And they haveallies in Italy--the Pope's enemy, Manfred von Hohenstaufen, and hissupporters, the Ghibellini. You must be on guard every moment._

  Simon's eyes swept the row of stone palaces that overlooked this part ofthe waterfront, their battlements offering hundreds of fine hidingplaces for killers. An enemy had only to gain surreptitious entrance toone of those great houses--not hard to do when everyone's attention wasturned toward the galley bringing the Tartars.

  _What should I do? The doge's men-at-arms outnumber mine, and look to bebetter soldiers. And it seems the Tartars have brought their ownwarriors. Perhaps I am not needed now._

  The thought brought him momentary relief. But then Simon realized thathe was yielding to the temptation that had assailed him throughout hislife, the urge to conceal himself.

  _But did I not undertake this task to uphold my family's good name andmy right to bear it? And besides, it is not only my dignity that must beupheld here, but the honor of King Louis. If anything happens to theTartars now that they are on Christian soil, I will have failed myking._

  Simon was about to push forward to demand room for his men when thefriar who had just disembarked raised his arm. Simon's gaze followed thedirection of the gesture, and came to rest at the head of the boardingramp.

  There stood two of the strangest-looking men Simon had ever seen. Theirfaces were the deep brown of well-tanned leather. The eyebrows werelittle black banners flying above black, slitted eyes that peered outover the battlements of jutting cheekbones. Their mustaches were thinand hung down in long strands below small chins adorned with sparsebeards. One man's beard was white, the other's black. But even theblack-bearded man was not young; there were deep creases in his face.Both men wore cylindrical caps, each topped with a polished, sphericalred stone. Their ankle-length robes were of maroon silk, brocaded withgold thread, and they wore short jackets with flowing sleeves. From theneck of each man hung a rectangular tablet on a gold chain.

  Simon's wonder turned to fear as he realized what perfect targets theTartar ambassadors were making of themselves.

  He threw his weight against the men and women in front of him, forcinghis way through the crowd--and found himself facing one of the doge'sarchers. The man raised his crossbow threateningly, but Simon sawimmediately that it was not loaded. Fine protection for the emissaries.

  "De Pirenne! De Puys!" Simon called to the two French knights nearesthim. "Follow me." He turned back to the Venetian crossbowman andshouted, "Stand aside!" in his loudest voice. "I am the Count deGobignon."

  As he had hoped, the sound of his command carried to Doge Zeno, whoseface, wrinkled as a yellow raisin, turned in Simon's direction.

  "Serenity!" Simon called, using the customary form of address for thedoge. "It is my duty to guard these ambassadors."

  Sordello, at Simon's elbow, said in a low voice, "You are a great lordin your own land, Your Signory, but it would be best if you did notarouse the wrath of the doge of Venice."

  "Be still," Simon snapped.

  Helmeted archers moved in on Simon from all sides, but Simon saw thedoge give an abrupt hand signal to their capitano. At a shouted orderfrom the capitano, the men-at-arms fell back, letting Simon through.

  "Why do you disturb our ceremonies, young count?" The doge's voice was ahoarse whisper. He smiled faintly, but his eyes were cold as winter.Simon felt painfully embarrassed. The ruler of the mightiest city on theMiddle Sea was, after all, as puissant as any king on earth.

  Simon fell to one knee before the doge. "Forgive me, Serenity. I onlywish to aid you in protecting the emissaries from Tartary, as my kinghas commanded me." His knees trembled, and he felt as if his heart werehammering hard enough to break his ribs.

  The smile faded and the aged eyes grew icier. "Does the Frankish countthink Venice too feeble to protect her distinguished visitors?"

  "Not at all, Serenity," said Simon hastily. "Only let me add my strengthto yours."

  "Say no more," said the doge in a voice as sharp as a dagger.

  By now the two Tartars had descended the ramp and were standing beforethe doge. For a moment Simon's eyes met those of the white-beardedTartar, and he felt a new, inexplicable, and powerful fear. He took astep backward, almost as if he had been struck a physical blow, and hegripped his sword hilt for reassurance.

  The Tartar turned his gaze to the doge, and Simon's fear faded, leavinghim to wonder what there was in this little brown-skinned man to inspireit. What he had seen in those eyes? A hardness, a gaze as empty ofconcern for Simon de Gobignon as the cloudless blue sky overhead.

  The friar said, "Serenity, this is John Chagan Noyon," indicating theolder Tartar. "A noyon among the Tartars is equal in rank to a prince inour lands. The Khan Hulagu sends you a prince to show how earnestly hewishes to ally himself with Christendom to destroy our mutual enemies,the Muslims. This other gentleman is Philip Uzbek Baghadur. 'Baghadur'means valiant, and he is a tuman-bashi, a commander of ten thousand. Heholds high place in the councils of Hulagu Khan." Each Tartar claspedhis hands before him and bowed low to the doge as his name was spoken.

  "How is it that they have Christian names?" asked the doge.

  The Franciscan friar smiled. "John Chagan comes of an old Christianfamily, formerly subject to the great Christian King of Asia, PresterJohn. And Philip Uzbek was baptized in his youth by the Bishop ofKarakorum."

  The doge waved his bony hands, making his heavy garments rustle."Christian Tartars! Prester John! The Bishop of _Karakorum_? This is toomuch for an old man to grasp all at once. But surely I can learn muchfrom you and these noble gentlemen that will be good for Venice. Tellthem that I invite them to bear me company to my palace, where we willdine together tonight and I will learn more of the marvels of the empireof Tartary."

  Simon knew that the doge's palace was more than half a mile down theavenue along this bank of the Grand Canal, and the prospect of theambassadors parading that distance alarmed him again. His fear ofdisaster came back full force, driving him once again, against allcourtesy, to speak out.

  "Serenity! I beg the privilege of joining forces with you to escort theambassadors to your palace."

  Anger blazed in the gaze the doge turned upon him this time. "Young man,if you speak out of turn once more, I will have you thrown into thecanal."

  Simon had no doubt that the doge would enjoy making good on his threat.But would the ruler of Venice allow an undignified scuffle on thewaterfront in the presence of two ambassadors? Simon doubted it, anddecided to stand his ground.

  "Forgive me, Serenity," he said, inclining his head. "It is my concernfor these precious lives that urges me to speak out."

  The doge took a deep breath. Then his small mouth twitched in a smile.

  "Very well, Count. You may follow after us."

  While the doge presented the assembled Venetian dignitaries to theTartars, Simon ordered Henri de Puys and Alain de Pirenne to draw up theknights and Sordello to form up the archers and be ready to follow theambassadors' train.

  Bearers brought a sedan chair for the Tartars, who climbed into it withbows and smiles. To Simon's distress, the conveyance was open, naturallyenough, since the Tartars would want to see Venice and the Venetianswould want to see them. But it meant still more danger.

  The Franciscan friar came over and put his hand on Simon's arm. "You arevery brave, young man, to speak up to the ruler of Venice as you did.And who might you be?"

  Simon introduced himself, and the friar bowed and addressed him inFrench. "How good to speak the language of my homeland again. I amMathieu d'Alcon of the Little Brothers of San Francesco, and I was bornnear Limoges, which is not far from your estate, Count. Of course, noplace in France is far from Gobignon lands." His broad smile told Simonthe remark was meant in friendly jest. "It was our good King Louis whosent me to the Tartars years ago. I am glad we will be in French handsafter we leave Venice." He gave Simon's arm a squeeze and returned tothe doge's procession.

  Simon had be
gun to think the whole world had turned against him, andFriar Mathieu's friendly words cheered him immensely. He watched thewhite-bearded friar with a warm feeling as he shook his head at theattendants who held a sedan chair for him. As befitted a goodFranciscan, sworn to poverty and dedicated to simplicity, the friarwould allow no one to carry him but insisted on walking on his ownsandaled feet behind the Tartars' chair.

  Simon and his men followed the last contingent of the doge's footsoldiers along the waterfront. Ahead, a stone bridge arched over one ofthe many Venetian canals.

  The procession was moving slowly now. After crossing the bridge, Simonsaw the ambassadors' sedan chair swing around a corner, and his pulsequickened because those he was to protect were out of his sight.

  He wanted to hurry to the corner, but the street narrowed here, with thewindowless white ground floor of a palazzo on one side and an ironrailing on the other. There was no room to bypass those ahead. Simonhurried his pace until he was all but treading on the leather-shod heelsof the spearman in front of him.

  He turned the corner into the small square in front of the doge'spalace. He saw the doge's sedan chair and that of the Tartars passthrough the gateway between the palace and the great basilica of SanMarco.

  Then he stopped short, feeling as if he had crashed headfirst into awall. The tall gates leading into the palace swung shut, and facing himwas a triple line of men-at-arms of the Most Serene Republic, in greenand gold tunics and armed with long spears.

  "Mere de Dieu!" he whispered.

  He could not force his way into the palace. If he even tried, he wouldonly look ridiculous. Indeed, he doubted that his men would fight. Theill-disciplined mercenaries were Venetians, too, and why would they obeythe command of a French seigneur, who had hired them only yesterday, tofight their own countrymen?

  "It appears we are not welcome at the palace, Your Signory," said avoice at his side. Simon turned and glared at Sordello, whoseweather-beaten face seemed to mask amusement.

  Simon tried to think of a way to rescue his dignity. "Find the leader ofthe palace guards and tell him I want to speak to him."

  Sordello shrugged. "As you wish, Your Signory."

  Alain de Pirenne, his gauntleted fist clenched on the hilt of his sword,blustered out, "Damned Italian discourtesy! It would serve them right ifsomebody did slip a dagger into those Tartars while we stand out here."

  _God forbid!_ thought Simon.

  Sordello came back with a Venetian man-at-arms, who touched the brim ofhis polished kettle-helmet respectfully.

  "This sergente has a message for you from His Serenity, the doge, YourSignory."

  "Let him tell it."

  Simon's command of the Venetian dialect was not good enough to followwhat the man in the kettle-helmet said, and to make it harder, he spokein what appeared to be an embarrassed mumble.

  "What did he say, Sordello?"

  "Forgive me, Your Signory," said Sordello. "The message may offend you.I will repeat it only if you wish it."

  "What did he say?" said Simon again in a tight voice.

  "The doge says you are to wait in quarters of your own choosing untilthe ambassadors from Tartary are ready to travel. At that time he willplace them in your keeping. Until then you are to trouble him no more,unless you are a very good swimmer."

  Simon felt rage boil up within him. He clenched his fists and fought itdown.

  "Tell him I thank His Serenity for his courtesy and will forever honorhim for it."

  Sordello nodded, and there was a look of respect in his craggy face.

  As Sordello repeated Simon's words to the sergente of the doge's guards,Simon wheeled and strode back the way he had come, to stare out to sea.Tears of frustrated fury burned his eyes. He could feel hot bloodbeating in his temples. The doge had treated him like a small boy. Thatold gargoyle had insulted him, had insulted the house of Gobignon, hadinsulted King Louis.

  And there was nothing Simon could do about it. He felt furious andmiserable. A failure, at the very start of his task.