by Robert Shea
XX
The madman had a loud voice. Daoud could hear him long before he couldsee the victim and his torturers. The people around Daoud jostled andcraned their necks toward the sound of the screams.
The heretic, in accordance with his sentence, had been dragged throughevery street in the city and tormented at every intersection, but mostof Orvieto's citizens had been waiting in the Piazza San Giovenale tosee his final agonies before the cathedral he had desecrated. The piazzawas so packed with people it seemed not another person could squeeze in.
Daoud had positioned himself at the foot of the front steps of thecathedral. He faced a wooden platform, newly built in the center of thepiazza, on four legs twice the height of a man. Above the platform rosea tall pole. The whole structure was of white wood, unseasoned andunpainted--which was only sensible, since it would shortly be destroyed.Bundles of firewood were piled under it.
Daoud's arms were wedged so tightly to his side by the crowd of peoplestanding about him that it was an effort for him to wipe his face withhis sleeve. He had expected Italy to be cooler than Egypt now, in themiddle of the Christian month of September, but the damp heat of summerlingered. Thick gray clouds hung low over the city. Sweat streamed fromunder Daoud's red velvet cap, and he wished he could wear a turban or aburnoose to keep his forehead cool and dry.
At the top of the cathedral steps, in a space cleared by papal guards,stood six red-robed cardinals. Ugolini was among them. He had not wantedto witness the execution, but Daoud had persuaded him to go. Hispresence, like Daoud's, might counter the suspicion that those whoopposed the alliance with the Tartars were connected with thedisturbances against them.
Near Ugolini stood Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil, the Tartars' chiefsupporter in the Sacred College, in a scarlet robe trimmed with ermine,and a broad-brimmed red hat. He looked disdainfully down at anothercardinal who Ugolini had pointed out to Daoud as Guy le Gros, also aFrenchman. Every so often de Verceuil would cock an ear to the screams,which were coming closer, or he would glance that way with bright, eagereyes.
Behind the cardinals stood a man-at-arms holding a staff bearing thepope's standard, a gold and white banner blazoned with the crossed keysof Peter in red. Ugolini had learned from the pope's majordomo that HisHoliness would not attend. Like Fra Tomasso, Urban had neither need nordesire to see this execution.
One who did have to witness the torture and death of the heretic stoodwith folded arms on the cathedral steps. He was stocky and much shorterthan the two guards in yellow and blue, the city colors, who stoodholding halberds on either side of him. His face was grim, and therewere deep shadows around his eyes. A small, thin mustache adorned hisupper lip. Daoud knew him to be Frescobaldo d'Ucello, podesta ofOrvieto.
Daoud's eye moved on. There was the young hero, the man who had capturedthe would-be assassin. Count Simon de Gobignon stood a little apart fromthe churchmen and the podesta, speaking to no one. It seemed he hadbrought none of his Frankish henchmen with him. The black velvet cap hewore and his long dark-brown hair contrasted with the pallor of his thinface. His dress was rich but somber, his silk mantle a deep maroon, histunic purple. His gloved left hand played nervously with the hilt of hissword, that very sword that had stricken the blade from the heretic'shand.
It was surprising, Daoud thought, that the count's sword was a long,curving scimitar with a jeweled scabbard and hilt. What was the boydoing with a Muslim sword? A trophy of some past crusade, no doubt.
_Not enjoying your triumph here today, are you, young Frank? Born torank and power and wealth, with castles and knights and servants andlands all around you. You have probably never seen a battle, much lessfought in one. And yet, knowing not what war is, you try to bringtogether the Tartar hordes and your crusader knights that they may laywaste my country, kill my people, and stamp out my faith._
Recalling how he and de Gobignon had faced each other at the pope'scouncil, Daoud once again felt rage boil up within him and wondered whyhe hated the young nobleman so. Was it because he intended to useSophia to spy on de Gobignon and corrupt him, and that she must bed withhim? But that was her work, Daoud tried to tell himself, just as warfarewas his.
But was this warfare? To pander to a fat friar's yearning for an oldbook? To send a lovely woman to the bed of a spoiled young nobleman? Toincite a poor fool, maddened by God, into getting himself tortured todeath? Daoud wished he could fight openly--draw his sword and challengede Gobignon. To drive him to his knees, to cut him down, to strike andstrike for the people he loved and for God.
_To kill him before all, as I did to Kassar._
Daoud, like de Gobignon, was alone. Lorenzo dared not come; thecondemned man might recognize him and call out to him. Daoud would neverbring Sophia to witness such a sight, even though there were many women,and even children, in the crowd.
The previous night Tilia had told him that she had rented for the day ahouse overlooking the piazza, from which some important patrons wouldenhance their pleasure with Tilia's women by watching the pain of theheretic. Daoud looked around at the colonnaded facades of the palacesaround the square, wondering which were the windows through whichTilia's depraved clients watched.
A howl went up from the crowd in the square, the people around Daoudshouting so loudly as to deafen him. He saw a cage made of wooden polesrocking into the piazza. People cheered and laughed. Two executioners inblood-red tunics, their heads and faces covered with red hoods, stood oneither side of the cage, each man holding in his hands a pair oflong-handled pincers. Standing on tiptoe, Daoud saw on the platform ofthe cart a black iron dish from which ribbons of gray smoke arose.
The prisoner, squatting in the cage, was silent for the moment. Even atthis distance Daoud could see his shoulders shaking spasmodically withhis panting. He was naked, and all over his flesh were bleeding,blackened wounds.
The executioners thrust the ends of their pincers into the coals andheld them there. When they raised them out and brandished them, theclaws were glowing red. They turned to the prisoner, who startedscreaming at once. One executioner thrust his pincers through the frontof the cage. The prisoner tried to back away, but the cage was toosmall. He only pressed his buttocks against the bars behind him, wherethe other executioner had crept and now dug the jaws of his pincers intothe man's flesh as the crowd roared with laughter. Daoud heard thesizzle. The man's scream rose to a pitch that made Daoud's ears ring.The executioner held up his pincers with a gobbet of burnt flesh caughtin them for the crowd to see, then slung them so that the bit of meatflew through the air. Daoud saw people reach up to grab at it.
_This man is dying horribly because of me._ The thought bit into Daoud'sheart like the red-hot claws. When Sophia had said as much accusingly tohim, he had shrugged it off. Now he had to face the fact.
_Let your guilt pierce you through the heart. Do not armor yourselfagainst it. Do not run away from it. Above all, do not turn your back onit._ So Saadi had advised him after he avenged himself on Kassar.
* * * * *
The sands of the Eastern Desert were the color of drying blood. Thehooves of Daoud's pony sank into them with each step, and he wished hehad a camel to ride.
Their training troop had never traveled this far south, and Nicetas hadbeen a fool, Daoud thought, to go hunting in unknown and dangerouscountry with only a pony to ride. No wonder he had not come backyesterday. Probably, the sun had killed the pony, and Nicetas wascrouched in some wadi waiting to be rescued.
_I should have gone with him._
But they had been friends, and more than friends, for two years, andfrom time to time each needed to be alone. They both understood that.And so, when the naqeeb Mahmoud gave them a day of rest after the trekdown from El Kahira, and Nicetas said he wanted to go out alone to gethimself a pair of antelope horns, Daoud simply hugged him and sent himon his way.
Daoud felt the murderous heat of the noon sun on his head through hisburnoose. Ten times hotter here than at El Kahira, now a hundred league
sto the north. The wind filled the air with red dust, and he had wrappeda scarf over his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were exposed, looking forNicetas.
_Antelope horns! Not even a lizard could live in this desert._
He should get into the shade, but he did not want to stop searching. IfNicetas were hurt and lying out in this sun, it would burn him to death.Daoud saw a line of sharp-pointed hills off to his left. There was shadethere, and Nicetas would try to reach shade. He tapped his pony'sshoulder lightly with his switch and turned its head toward the hills.
Nearly there, he saw what looked like a black rock half-buried ahead ofhim. Could it be a body? For a moment his heart hammered. No, it was toobig. His pony floundered on through the sand till they reached the darkshape.
It was Nicetas's pony, dead. Windblown sand half covered it, but he wassure of it. Nicetas's pony was black.
Daoud swung down from his horse, looping the reins around his wrist soit could not run off, and knelt to examine the dead pony. He brushedaway sand from the forehead. Three white dots; he knew those markingswell.
He scooped sand away from the dead pony and found an arrow jutting outof the chest. In spite of the fiery sun his body went cold. WildSudanese were said to prowl this desert.
He jerked on the arrow. It had gone in deep, and the head must be broad.It took him long to tear it free.
The head was wedge-shaped and made of steel, with sword-sharp edges.Sudanese tribesmen had no such arrows. Even Mamelukes had only a few.Each Mameluke carried two or three, to use against a well-armoredopponent.
"Oh, God, help me find Nicetas," he prayed.
Nicetas was out there somewhere. Daoud pushed out of his mind thethought that he might be dead.
Was this punishment for their sin of loving each other, he wondered ashe mounted his little horse. God frowned on men lying with men, themullahs said, but everyone knew that men, especially young men far fromwomen, often took comfort in one another.
He pulled his burnoose farther down over his eyes to shade them betteragainst the sun. He wanted water, but he would not let himself drinkuntil he had reached the hills. He might find Nicetas there, and Nicetasmight need the water.
The hills thrust abruptly out of the sand in long vertical folds. Halfblinded by the glare, he could see only opaque blackness where the sundid not strike them.
He thought he saw movement in one shadow. He kicked the pony, driving itto struggle faster through the sand, keeping his eyes fixed on the spot.
A deep crevice sliced into the hillside. Daoud rode into it cautiously.Whoever killed Nicetas's mount might still be somewhere about.
Once out of the sun, he slid down from the saddle. He saw no water, butthere was a dead tamarisk, its branches like supplicating arms, at themouth of the crevice. He tied the pony to a limb and moved, slowly,deeper into the shadow.
He looked down at the floor of the crevice, paved with drifting sand andtiny pebbles. He felt a pain in his heart as he saw a trail of darkcircular spots, each about the size of his hand. It could be a woundedanimal, he told himself.
Then he saw a palmprint, the same dried color, and the pain in his heartsharpened.
He saw the movement again, at the far end of the crevice. A figure laywith its legs stretched out before it, its back propped against thebrown stone. Pale hands were clasped over its stomach.
He heard a low, moaning sound, and realized it was coming not fromNicetas but from his own mouth.
Daoud ran and fell to his knees beside him. The half-open eyes widenedand the amber gaze turned in his direction. The Greek boy's face wasreddened with dust that clung to his sweat. His lips, partially open,were so dry and encrusted they looked like scabs. Daoud put his hand onNicetas's cheeks. His face was burning.
Now the hurt in Daoud's heart was like death itself.
_I am going to lose him._
But this was no time to wail and weep. He must do everything he could.It might yet be God's will that he save his friend.
_Let him live, oh God, and I will never sin with him again._
"I knew you would come." The voice was so faint Daoud could barely hearit above the wind whistling past the mouth of the crevice.
Daoud sprang to his feet and ran to his pony to get his water bottle. Heuntwisted the stopper over his friend's mouth.
The Greek boy shook his head. "I cannot swallow. Just pour a little inmy mouth to wet it." Daoud saw deep red cracks in Nicetas's lips. Thewater trickled out the corners of his mouth and streaked his dustycheeks.
A hundred half-formed thoughts crowded Daoud's mind. His eyes burned,and pain pounded at his chest.
All he said was "What happened to you?"
"It was Kassar," Nicetas whispered. "He got me with his first arrow.Then he shot the pony and it fell on me. He rode me down. He took my bowbefore I could get free."
_After all this time!_ Daoud thought. Kassar had said nothing, donenothing, since the day Nicetas beat him at casting the rumh.
Two years Kassar had waited.
He bent forward to take Nicetas in his arms, but the Greek boy shook hishead. "Do not move me. It will hurt too much."
"Where are you hit?"
"In my back. Still in me. I broke off the shaft."
_Why was I such a fool, to think we were safe?_
"It can't be a very bad wound."
Nicetas closed his eyes. "Bad enough that he could use me for hispleasure and I could not fight him off."
A dizzying blackness blinded Daoud. His skull felt as if it were goingto burst.
"By God and the Prophet, I will kill him."
"I want you to."
"Did he do any more to hurt you?"
"Yes, he got me here." He parted his hands and raised them from hisstomach. His white cotton robe was caked with black blood, and there wasa tear in the center. The wound was not wide, but Daoud knew that itmust be very deep.
"He made sure to use his rumh, you see."
"Because that was how you beat him."
Daoud wanted only to hold Nicetas and cry, but he sensed that what wouldmost comfort the Greek boy would be talking about what happened to him.
"After the rumh, I lay very still and held my breath. He thought I wasdead. He left me lying there with the pony. Took my weapons and my waterbottle. I crawled here. In the sun. Yesterday afternoon. I bled andbled."
_He is going to die_, Daoud thought. He did not want to believe it. Fora moment he was angry at Nicetas. Why had he been such a fool as to comeout here alone? And then at himself. Why had he let him go?
And then at God.
_Why did You let this happen? Do You hate us because we love eachother?_
"I knew you would come for me, Daoud. I stayed alive to greet you."
Daoud took Nicetas's hand. "I will take you back."
"No. Bury me out here. Let him think you never found me. Bide your time,as he did. Give him no reason to fear you. He fears you already, or hewould never have done it this way."
"Before the year is out, you will look down from paradise and see himburning in hell."
"I'm sorry. I was never strong enough to be a Mameluke."
"No. You _are_ strong."
"Not strong enough to live," said Nicetas, so faintly Daoud could hardlyhear him. "Good-bye, Daoud. Remember the Greek I taught you. You maymeet someone else who speaks Greek."
"I will never meet anyone like you." The tears spilled out over hiseyelids, and he did not try to brush them away. The hand he heldsqueezed his, weakly, then relaxed.
Daoud bent forward and touched his mouth to the split, dust-coated lips.No breath came from his friend's body. A curtain of shadow swept beforehis eyes, and he thought he was going to faint.
He thrust himself to his feet as Nicetas's head fell to one side.
He threw his arms over his head and screamed.
Arms still upraised, he dropped to his knees.
"Oh, God!" His voice echoed back from the walls of the crevice. "God,God, God!"
The pain in
his heart was as if a rumh had impaled it. He felt that hemust die, too. He could not bear this loss. Never to see his friendsmile again, never to hear his laughter. That body he had loved, nothingnow but unmoving, empty clay.
He looked over at Nicetas, hoping to see a movement, the flicker of aneyelid, the rising of the chest. Nothing. Daoud would never again lookon in admiration as the Greek boy rode wildly, standing in the stirrupsshooting his arrows at the gallop or casting his spear unerringly at thetarget. They would never, as he had dreamed, ride side by side intobattle.
Daoud crumpled to the ground in the position of worship, his foreheadpressed against the sharp, broken stones. But he was not worshiping. Hesimply did not have the strength to hold himself upright.
It seemed hours later when he at last stirred himself. Sobbing, hecarried Nicetas out to a place near the mouth of the crevice, where thesand had drifted in, and with his hands he dug there a grave. All alongthe base of the hillside were many loose brown stones, chipped away bythe eternal wind. With bleeding hands he piled the stones high overNicetas's body, but tried to make the pile look like a rock slide, sothat no one would know someone was buried here. He knelt, weeping andtalking to Nicetas's spirit, until the sun was low in the west.
* * * * *
As Nicetas had told him to do, Daoud had pretended, when he came backfrom the desert, that he had no idea what had happened to his friend.The naqeeb had declared that Sudanese tribesmen or wild animals musthave gotten him. Daoud was not alone in his grief. Many of the boys inthe troop had liked Nicetas.
Even Kassar had said words of sympathy, his face expressionless and hisslanted eyes opaque. Daoud held in his rage, a white-hot furnace in hisheart, and in a choked voice he thanked Kassar.
At first he went about in a daze, unable to think. He told himself thatin spite of his dissembling, Kassar would be on guard. He would have tochoose a time to take his revenge when Kassar would be preoccupied. AndDaoud himself must be alert at all times. Kassar might not be satisfiedwith killing only Nicetas. In spite of these warnings to himself,Daoud's mind remained numb. He was, he told himself, like a mall ball,hit one way by grief, the other way by rage, unable to take control ofhis destiny.
That thought of mall gave him the beginning of a plan.
He let three months go by from the day he found Nicetas. His plan wasvery simple. It left much to luck, and it might fail utterly--Kassarmight anticipate what he was going to do and turn the moment againsthim, killing him and claiming he was defending himself. Kassar's friendsmight thwart Daoud.
He would have only this one chance. If he failed, he would be dead orcrippled. Or worst of all, cast out of the Mamelukes to spend the restof his life as a ghulman, a menial slave. But if he succeeded, Nicetaswould be avenged before Baibars and Sultan Qutuz and all Daoud's andNicetas's khushdashiya.
Whatever punishment might befall him then, he thought he could bear itfor Nicetas's sake.
_The Warrior of God is a man who would give his life for his friends._
On the day Daoud decided to act, the Bhari Mamelukes, the slaves of theRiver, rode out to play mall. Emir Baibars al-Bunduqdari led them acrossthe bridge from Raudha Island to the Nasiri race course, their trainingand playing ground, within sight of the great pyramids built by theancient idol-worshipers of Egypt. The people of El Kahira watched withshining eyes as their guardians assembled on the field. Baibars'stablkhana, his personal mounted band, playing trumpets and kettledrums,cymbals and hautboys, rode before them. Sultan al-Mudhaffar Qutuz camedown from the citadel of El Kahira to watch the games as the guest ofhis Mamelukes.
The troops of julbans, Mamelukes in training, brought up the rear of theparade on their little ponies, with their naqeebs riding before them,the oldest boys in the lead and the first- and second-year boys on footat the end. They wore plain brown shirts and white cotton trousers andcaps. No special marks of rank were allowed these young slaves untilthey became full-fledged Mamelukes.
Daoud's troop, the boys in their fifth year of training, rodeimmediately behind the Mamelukes. Each boy carried a mallet, which wasas much part of his equipment as his bow, his rumh, his dabbus, and hissaif. The mallets were made of cedar and were large and heavy. They hadto be, to drive a wooden ball half the size of a man's head.
Slaves had pulled perforated water barrels in carts over the field tolay the dust. Baibars and the sultan and the highest-ranking emirsseated themselves on cushions in an open pavilion facing the center ofthe field.
Daoud's teammates chattered excitedly. They loved mall, and to playbefore the sultan was a special honor. Kassar, the captain of theirteam, boasted that he would make ten goals that day. Theirs was to bethe second match.
Hefting his mallet, Daoud watched the first match, also between twoteams of fifth-year trainees. Each team of eight riders tried to drivethe wooden ball between a pair of stone pillars painted with red andyellow stripes, defended by the other team. With every crack of a malletagainst the ball, a roar went up from the watching Mamelukes.
A judge with an hourglass called time halfway through the match, to letthe field be watered again and the teams change ponies. By the end ofthe match, the dust was so thick Daoud could not see who had won. But hedid not care. He felt utterly calm. He was past anger and past fear. Hethought only of watching for the right moment.
Now it was time for their team.
Kassar, Daoud, and the other six riders lined up on the east side of thefield, the eight members of the troop they were playing against formingon the other side.
The judge set the wooden ball, yellow with a bright red stripe aroundits middle, in the center of the field. The sultan held out a blue silkscarf and dropped it. Kassar and the captain of the other team raced atthe ball from opposite goals, screaming their war cries. Kassar whirledhis mallet over his head, and his pony's legs were a blur in the dust.He reached the ball an instant before his opponent. His mallet slammedinto the ball with a crack like the splitting of a board, and the ballflew halfway toward the enemy goal.
The ball was in play, and now the other riders could join in.
_You will make not even one goal today, Kassar_, Daoud thought as hegalloped across the field with his team.
The players on the other side were trying to hit the ball away fromtheir goal. Kassar had ridden into their midst, his pony nimblyfollowing the ball. He held his mallet low to hit through the legs ofthe opposing team's ponies. Two of the opponents had stayed back bytheir goalposts to deflect the ball should Kassar hit it.
Kassar was on top of the ball. Daoud kicked his pony's ribs hard andgalloped after him.
As Kassar swung low from his saddle to hit the ball, Daoud drove in onhim. Kassar glanced up, fear flashing across his broad face. Whateverpassed through his mind was his last thought. Daoud swung his mallet upfrom the ground, smashing it into Kassar's jaw. The force of the blowknocked the white cap from his head. His pony ran free of the melee.Kassar reeled, unconscious, but his horse nomad's instinct held him inthe saddle.
Daoud jerked his pony around to race after Kassar. In an instant he wasbeside his enemy.
He was about to kill a khushdashiyin, a barracks comrade, in opendefiance of the code of the Mamelukes and in front of his emir and hissultan.
_I am a dead man_, he thought as he swung the mallet high.
His body felt cold as death, and he hesitated. As he did so, Kassarturned his head, and Daoud saw consciousness struggling to return to hisglazed eyes.
This was Daoud's last chance to avenge Nicetas.
He heard a distant roar of command from the naqeeb Mahmoud, but heignored it.
He brought the mallet down with all his strength on the Kipchaq'sglistening black hair. The shock of the contact ran up his arm and intohis shoulder. Kassar started to fall. Daoud struck again with themallet.
Kassar pitched from his pony's back. As he struck the ground, Daoudsmashed the mallet into his head a third time, just as if he werehitting a ball. He tried to hit hard enou
gh to knock Kassar's headright off his neck. Daoud saw the head suddenly distorted, flattening,and knew the skull was crushed. Kassar lay on the ground on his back,only the whites of his eyes showing, his mouth hanging open. Dust halfobscured his body.
Daoud heard shouts from the bystanders, but he paid no attention to whatthey were saying. He saw riders, the other players, racing toward him.
A silence fell on the playing field.
"Get down from your horse." It was Mahmoud, who had run out into thefield on foot.
As Daoud and Mahmoud walked across the field, the naqeeb said, "You willanswer to El Malik Qutuz and to Emir Baibars for this. Fool, whateveryour quarrel was, could you not have settled it in private? Have youforgotten that Baibars is a Kipchaq? He will not forgive you."
Despite his joy at seeing Nicetas's murderer dead, Daoud now felt terrorclutching his throat as he approached the two seated figures in theirsplendid robes at the side of the field. Now that the deed was done andcould not be undone, he dreaded facing these two mighty judges.
_Baibars is a Kipchaq, but it was Baibars who bought me for theMamelukes_, Daoud thought. _I wonder which will mean more to him thisday._
Baibars and Qutuz sat side by side on cushions in the shade of a silkencanopy. Baibars wore an egret's plume, symbol of valor, on his greenturban. His wide, harsh mouth was tight under the red mustache, his goodeye as empty of feeling as the blind one that was crossed by a verticalsaber scar.
_Beneficent God, if I must die for what I have done, let it be a quickand clean death. And then I will join Nicetas._
El Malik al-Mudhaffar Qutuz, Sultan of El Kahira, a Mameluke of aKurdish tribe, was somewhat older than Baibars. His face wascriss-crossed with tiny wrinkles. His beard, greased so that it juttedlike the prow of a galley, was such a flat black that it must surely bedyed. He wore a large black turban and full black robes with goldembroidery.
Daoud fell to his knees and prostrated himself before the sultan.
"Get up and take off your cap," said Qutuz without preliminary. Daoudrose to his feet, lifting his cap from his head.
"Look at that blond hair," said Qutuz wonderingly. "I thought he had thelook of a Frank about him, Bunduqdari."
"I could have told you that," said Baibars flatly. "He belongs to me. Heis known as Daoud ibn Abdallah. His parents were Franks. We took himwhen we freed Ascalon." He talked to Qutuz, Daoud noted, as if they wereequals.
Baibars turned his one eye on Daoud. "Why did you do this?" he saidsoftly. "You are not a fool, and you would not kill out of foolishness."
"Effendi, he killed my friend," said Daoud, making himself standstraight and look levelly at Baibars. The emir might sentence him todeath, but he would show himself a true Mameluke. He would not cringe orbeg. He would honor Nicetas.
"How do you know?"
Daoud told Baibars how he had found Nicetas in the desert and what hehad said to him. He kept his voice level, trying not to let his fearshow.
"You should have reported this to me!" shouted Naqeeb Mahmoud, his whitebeard quivering. The naqeeb would bear some blame, Daoud thought, forthis breach of discipline.
But Daoud only turned to him and threw his own words back at him, "AmongMamelukes, he who is strongest rules."
Perhaps he should not be so defiant, he thought. Both the sultan andBaibars liked to show themselves to be men of great generosity.
_Yes, but not to a julban who has broken the law._
"He cannot kill his comrade and go unpunished," said Qutuz. "He shouldbe beheaded."
At the words, even though he had thought himself prepared for them,Daoud felt something shrink with dread inside him. He felt the bladeslicing through his neck. The sultan had spoken. His life was over.
"He is too valuable to be beheaded," said Baibars. "Believe me, MyLord."
_Valuable?_
Daoud felt as if he had fallen from a cliff and a strong hand hadreached out and was dragging him back. He was breathless with a reliefhe barely dared to feel. He tried to keep his face and body still as thetwo great ones debated his fate, but he could not stop his fists fromclenching.
The sultan's eyes narrowed, and a deep crease appeared between his browsas he turned to Baibars. "Is this Frankish murderer a protege of yours,then?"
Baibars nodded. "I have seen reason to take a personal interest in him,if it please My Lord."
What did that mean? What had Baibars seen in him that day in the slavemarket, and why had Baibars come there that day?
_I have long watched for such a one as you, who could have the outwardlook of a Christian knight but the mind and heart of a Mameluke. Onelike you could be a great weapon against the enemies of the faith._
"It does not please me," said Qutuz shortly. "There is too much breakingof rules among the Bhari Mamelukes." He spoke, Daoud thought, as if hewere not originally a Mameluke himself.
"There is a law among Mamelukes more binding than any lesser rule," saidBaibars quietly. "He who feels himself greatly sinned against muststrike back. If he cannot do that, he is not enough of a man to be aMameluke. Even as this foolish boy said, the strong must rule."
Daoud saw grave approval in Baibars's brown face and realized that itdid not matter at all to Baibars that Kassar was a Kipchaq. His joy grewas he realized that he had Baibars on his side.
Daoud remembered Nicetas's dying words--_I am not strong enough to be aMameluke_.
_But together we were strong enough to do what had to be done._
Qutuz said, "If all Mamelukes believed only in the rule of thestrongest, we would have chaos."
"Only if it were not certain who _is_ strongest," said Baibars quietly.
Baibars and Qutuz sat looking at each other in a grave and thoughtfulsilence that seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, Qutuz turned away.
"I must allow you to discipline the Bhari Mamelukes--or not disciplinethem--as you see fit, Bunduqdari. That is your responsibility."
"Thank you, My Lord," said Baibars with just a hint of sarcasm.
He turned to Mahmoud. "Take him away."
Daoud crossed the field, walking beside Mahmoud, wondering how hiskhushdashiya, clustered together around what had been their goal, wouldgreet him.
_I have killed Kassar_, Daoud thought. _I have taken a life._ It was thefirst time, and he felt glad and proud.
But he would gladly give up this proud moment to have Nicetas back. Hisgrief for Nicetas was sharp as ever, not at all eased by vengeance.
_Is it wrong to have done as I did and to feel this way?_
A sharp voice rang out behind them. "Mahmoud!"
Daoud and the naqeeb turned together, and Daoud was amazed to see thatBaibars, splendid in his red satin robe and green turban, wasapproaching them. Daoud and Mahmoud rushed to stand before him, rigidand trembling.
"Mahmoud," Baibars said, "when we return to Raudha Island tonight, youwill issue this fool the steel helmet of a full-fledged Mameluke,trimmed with black fur."
He swung that searching blue eye back to Daoud. "Tonight at the GrayMosque I will perform the ceremony that frees you. You will be a part ofmy personal guard from now on."
Dizzy with exultation, Daoud fell to his knees and pressed his foreheadto the cool brown earth before the emir. Tears burned his eyes anddripped to the ground.
"May God praise and bless you, Emir Baibars!" he cried.
"Get up," Baibars said briskly. "Had you let your friend go unavenged, Iwould no longer be interested in you."
As he scrambled to his feet, Daoud saw Mahmoud smiling through hisbeard.
"You learned well the lesson I tried to teach you."
Dizzy, Daoud tried to grasp what had been going on in the minds of thesemen without his realizing it.
Baibars said, "Now you must learn to kill with more grace and subtlety.I shall see that you are trained by masters, as I did when I sent you toSheikh Abu Hamid al-Din Saadi."
_And I must go to Sheikh Saadi again_, thought Daoud. _That he may tellme if I did wrong._
; * * * * *
Now it was over ten years since Kassar had killed Nicetas and Daoud hadkilled Kassar. And though Daoud had never felt guilty for killingKassar, he understood what Saadi meant about facing guilt.
If he had not understood, he might have told himself that it was not hisfault, it was these Christian brutes who chose to torment the poormadman in this way. He might have told himself that Lorenzo, not he, hadfound the man and brought him to Orvieto. He might simply have said, ashe had said to Sophia, that in war there must be innocent victims. Hemight have reminded himself that he and Lorenzo thought that the manwould only raise a commotion in the church, not that he would draw aknife.
And if he consented to any of those thoughts, he would have beenpinching off a fragment of his soul, just as the executioners pinchedoff bits of this man's body.
He forced himself to watch as the cage moved slowly into the piazza andthe executioners tore again and again at the victim's body with theirred-hot pincers. He saw now that six laughing, well-dressed young menwere pulling the cart. Of course. No beast, its nostrils assailed by thesmell of burning flesh and its ears by the victim's howls of agony,could remain calm and pull a cart through this frenzied crowd.
These were the same people who had rioted against the Tartars a monthago, the day this man was arrested. Now they cheered and jeered at thedeath of the Tartars' assailant. And that meant, Daoud thought, that theman's death was in vain.
The cage drew near him now as it approached the scaffold. Daoud held hisbreath at the thought that the condemned man might look him in the eye._How could I bear that?_ But the man's eyes, he saw, were squeezed shutwith fear and pain.
And guilt continued to cut into Daoud like the twisting knife blade of aHashishiyyin.
_A better man than I would have found a way to stir the people and keepthem stirred, so that lives would not be wasted._
The two red-garbed executioners had set aside their red-hot pincers andwere dragging the heretic up the ladder to the scaffold. His feetdangled on the rungs. On the platform stood another man waiting for thevictim.
Daoud felt his eyes open wide and his lips begin to work silently whenhe saw who the third executioner was.
His face was left bare by the executioner's black hood, whose long pointhung down the side of his head past his chin. No use to mask this man'sface; his body made him instantly recognizable to anyone who had everseen him before.
He smiled a serene, almost kindly smile down at the moaning man who wasbeing dragged up the ladder toward him. He held a cook's knife in onehand with a blade as wide as his wrist and as long as his forearm. If hewere not holding the knife up to display it to his victim, the tip of itwould have rested on the platform, because the executioner's back wasbent forward as if it had been broken in some accident long ago.
_The firewood seller at Lucera!_
Daoud's head swam as he tried to fathom how the crippled dwarf who hadbeen part of the crowd of tradesmen entering the great Hohenstaufenstronghold with him, who had witnessed Daoud's arrest by Celino at thegate and even seemed to pray in his behalf, could be here conducting apublic execution in the city of the pope. He must have been a Guelfospy, by coincidence infiltrating Lucera at the same time as Daoud.
He had been in Manfred's pastry kitchen. Had he really been sleeping, orhad he seen Manfred, Lorenzo, and Daoud walk through together?
_If he sees me here in the crowd, he will expose me!_ The people aroundDaoud, their breath reeking of onions and garlic, pressed him so tightlyhe could barely move. Twisting his body, he managed to get his backturned to the scaffold. This put him face-to-face with abroad-shouldered man in a mud-brown tunic, with a thick black beard andmustache. The man laughed at him.
"Would you turn away? Have you no stomach for Erculio's holy work?"
Daoud fixed the man with a stare, thinking of what he would like to doto him. He realized, though, that if he tried to fight his way out ofthe piazza, the little man on the scaffold would certainly notice him.If he simply stayed where he was and watched, his would be one face inthousands, and the dwarf obviously had more pressing business. Hereached up to the soft cap on his head, making sure it covered most ofhis blond hair. Without a word to the man in brown, who had shrunk fromhis stare, Daoud turned and faced the platform. He was just in time tosee the bent dwarf--Erculio, was that his name?--bless himself, just ashe had at Lucera.
Daoud's heart pounded as he imagined himself and Lorenzo and Ugolinisuffering as this naked, bleeding blistered heretic was.
_And Sophia! God forbid! I would cut her throat myself before I letanything like this happen to her._
The thought of Sophia being tortured in public was such agony that hewanted to scream and fight his way out of the piazza. He did Sufibreathing exercises to calm himself.
They had tied the moaning victim down on a wooden sawhorse. Lying on hisback, he was low enough that the bent man could easily reach any part ofhim. One of the executioners in red held the victim's mouth open, andthe little man reached in with one hand, pulled forth the tongue andsliced it off. Like a jongleur producing an apple from his sleeve, hewaved the severed tongue at the crowd, then threw it. A forest of handsclutched at it. Common people everywhere, Daoud recalled, believed thatparts of the bodies of condemned men could be used in magic.
It took a moment for Erculio to saw the heretic's nose off. With tongueand nose gone, the condemned man's screams no longer sounded human. Theywere like the bellowings of a steer being clumsily slaughtered.
Daoud realized that he was grateful for the problem that the little manpresented. It gave him something urgent to think about other than whathe was watching.
Erculio now stuck the knife, point down, in the platform and used bothhands to tear the heretic's eyeballs out. The tormented man was silentnow. He must have fainted. The little man danced about him, jabbing himrepeatedly with the knife until the screams started again.
Were the nobles and churchmen enjoying this as much as the common folk,Daoud wondered. There seemed to be fewer prelates in red and purple onthe church and steps when he looked. Ugolini stood with his hands behindhis back, turning his eyes away from the scene in the piazza. DeVerceuil stared right at the victim, his little mouth open in a grinshowing white teeth. D'Ucello stood stolidly between his guards, hisarms folded. He did not seem to have moved or changed the expression onhis face since Daoud first saw him.
Simon de Gobignon was pale as parchment, and even as Daoud watched, theyoung man turned and hurried into the cathedral.
_Weakling! It is because of you, too, that this man suffers, but youcannot face it._
Erculio, dancing, grimacing comically under his black mustache, feintedrepeatedly with his knife at the condemned man's groin. When the shoutsof the crowd had reached a crescendo, he fell upon his victim and slicedaway testicles and penis with quick strokes. The heretic gave a long,shivering howl of agony, then was silent. The little man tossed thebloody organs into the air. An executioner in red caught them and threwthem to the other one, who in turn hurled them into the crowd.
_I hope dozens of them are killed in the scramble. God forgive me forthe pain I have caused this man._
The two men in red untied the condemned man and heaved him to his feet,his face and body so running with blood that he, too, seemed dressed inred. The crowd began to back away from the scaffold, and Daoud felthimself irresistibly carried back with them. The executioners tied thelimp form of the heretic to the stake jutting up from the center of theplatform.
The black-clad dwarf scuttled like a monkey to the edge of the platform,and someone handed him a flaming torch. He danced with it. He whirled itin great circles around his head, and Daoud heard it hissing even overthe cheers of the crowd. He swung the flame between his legs and leaptover it. He threw it high in the air, the torch spinning under the thickgray clouds that hung low over Orvieto. Erculio neatly caught it when itcame down. For a man so badly deformed, his agility was eerie.
Erculio tu
rned toward the cathedral, holding up the torch. Daoudfollowed the dwarf's gaze and saw d'Ucello, the podesta, his face awhite mask, give a wave of assent.
Spinning on his heels, the dwarf scurried to the ladder, scrambled downa few rungs, and threw the torch into the tinder piled under theplatform. Then he turned and leapt out into space. The other twoexecutioners had left the platform and stood at the bottom of theladder, and one of them caught Erculio and swung him down.
The flames shot up with a roar, a red and gold curtain around theheretic. Daoud heard no more cries of pain. Perhaps he was already deadof his wounds. Daoud prayed to God that it be so.
The smoke did not rise in the hot, moist air, but coiled and spreadaround the scaffold. People coughed and wiped their eyes and drew backfarther from the blaze. Daoud was close enough to feel the heat, and onsuch a sweltering day it was unbearable. But now, he discovered, hecould move. The crowd was dispersing. There was nothing more to see. Theheretic was surely dead, and the smoke and flames hid the destruction ofhis body.
Daoud looked up at the cathedral steps. There were no red or purplerobes there, and the papal banner was gone. The Count de Gobignon hadreappeared and was staring at the fire. As Daoud watched, the countstumbled down the steps, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.
Daoud turned to go back to Ugolini's.
"Well, Messer David, do they do as thorough a job on heretics inTrebizond?"
Daoud's path was blocked by a man in a scarlet robe. From beneath thewide circular brim of a great red hat, the long, dark face of Cardinalde Verceuil glowered at him. Thick red tassels hung down from the hatall around the cardinal's head.
Immediately behind de Verceuil stood two attendants. One held high awhite banner blazoned with a red cross and a gold flower shape in two ofthe quarters; the other man, a sturdy, shaven-headed young cleric inblack cassock, carried a long golden rod that curved into a tight spiralat the top. That was called a crosier, Daoud recalled, and was thecardinal's staff of office. Behind them were four men-at-arms who lookedhard at Daoud, as if expecting him to give offense to their master.Daoud wondered if the cardinal would consider having him killed here inpublic. Daoud stared at him through the smoky air, measuring him,looking for those small signs of tension to be found in a man about toorder an attack. The man seemed too relaxed for that.
"No, Your Eminence, we only stone our heretics to death."
De Verceuil smiled. "That may be a better way of disposing of them.After a burning, the unpleasant thought always occurs to me that I amcarrying the heretic away in my nostrils and lungs."
Sickened inwardly at this reminder of the rancid smell that had comefrom the heretic's pyre, Daoud smiled at the grisly jest, as he assumedthe cardinal expected him to. He remained silent, waiting for deVerceuil to reveal the reason for this encounter.
"Ordinarily we merely burn heretics," the cardinal went on. "We had thisman tormented first because he threatened our guests, the Tartarambassadors, and disturbed a service in the cathedral with the popehimself present. We had to be severe with him."
"Assuredly," said Daoud, still smiling. De Verceuil's Italian soundedstrange to him. He must be speaking it with a French accent.
"But perhaps, since you seem to think the Tartars are such a danger toChristendom," said de Verceuil in a voice that was lower and moremenacing, "you approve of what that man did." He gestured toward theburning scaffold. The stake and whatever was left of the body bound toit had fallen through the platform into the pile of faggots. A breezehad sprung up and was blowing the smoke away from Daoud and thecardinal, for which Daoud thanked God.
"I came here today to see justice done," Daoud said firmly.
"You profess the Greek Church," said de Verceuil, eyeing him coldly."That makes you a heretic yourself."
The men-at-arms behind the cardinal shifted restlessly, and Daoudwondered again if de Verceuil meant to provoke a fight leading to akilling. Or perhaps have him arrested. He looked past de Verceuil andhis men and saw that some curious citizens had formed a circle aroundhimself and the cardinal. And there was de Gobignon, standing watchfullyonly a short distance away at the foot of the cathedral steps. Was hissword, too, at the cardinal's command?
"If you are concerned about justice, it is too bad you chose to beCardinal Ugolini's guest during your stay in Orvieto," de Verceuil said."You will hear only a corrupt Italian point of view in his household."
Praise God, de Verceuil was not pursuing the matter of Daoud's heresy.
Daoud shrugged. "I have seen what devastation the Tartars do, YourEminence. With respect, let me say to you that they are as much a dangerto your country, France, as to Italy."
De Verceuil essayed what he may have thought was an ingratiating smile,but his small mouth made him look sly and sour.
"I invite you to come to live at the Palazzo Monaldeschi. I have spokento the contessa, and she would be most happy to receive you. TheMonaldeschi are the wealthiest family in Orvieto, and they haveconnections with other great families in the Papal States. If you wishto find good customers for your silks and spices here, it is thecontessa you should see. And if you would trade with France, perhaps Ican help you there."
The possibility of spending some days and nights in enemy headquarterswas intriguing. But would it be prudent to put himself into deVerceuil's and de Gobignon's hands?
Daoud shook his head with what he hoped was a regretful smile. "Forgiveme, Your Eminence. Your offer of the contessa's hospitality overwhelmsme, but I have already promised to remain with Cardinal Ugolini, and hewould be deeply offended if I were to leave him."
De Verceuil glowered. "Ugolini is from Hohenstaufen territory. TheMonaldeschi have always been loyal to the pope and have great influencewith him. Just as I have with King Louis of France and his brother,Count Charles. Come to us, and when you go back to your own land youwill be a wealthy man."
"Could it be that Your Eminence hopes I might change my testimony aboutthe Tartars?"
Daoud felt close to laughter as the cardinal's cheeks reddened.
De Verceuil shot back, "Could it be that your enmity to the Tartars ismore important to you than your profit as a merchant?"
Daoud's heart beat harder. That was too close to the mark. It wasfoolish of him to jest with a man who had the power to condemn him andhis friends to be tortured and burned like that poor madman.
"I regret that I have offended Your Eminence," he said. "I have seenwhat I have seen, and I am honor bound to speak the truth. And profitwill do me no good if the Tartars slaughter us all."
"You are ignorant of our ways," de Verceuil said ominously, after a longpause during which Daoud felt raindrops strike his face. "Have a carethat you do not slip into pitfalls you cannot possibly foresee."
First de Verceuil joked, then he threatened, then he offeredhospitality, then he threatened again. He seemed to have no sense of howto deal with men.
_Even if we were on the same side, I would hate him. What a trial hemust be for his allies._
But Daoud was eager to get away without creating any deeper enmitybetween himself and the cardinal. "I thank you again for your offer ofhospitality, Your Eminence. Even if I cannot come to live at theMonaldeschi palace, I do hope to meet the contessa. She has graciouslyinvited Cardinal Ugolini to her reception for the Tartar ambassadors,and I shall accompany him."
"Do not think you are free to do as you please in Orvieto," said deVerceuil angrily. "You are being closely watched." He turned abruptlyand strode off. Daoud bowed politely to his scarlet back. Casting uglylooks at Daoud, the cardinal's men followed.
Daoud told himself that it would be wise to be frightened. But what hefelt was more a profound disdain for Paulus de Verceuil.
_As a man of religion or of power, how can this squawking bird in redplumage compare with Sheikh Saadi and the Imam Fayum of theHashishiyya?_
The rain was coming down harder. It hissed in the still-burning heap ofwood and bones.
A movement near the cathedral steps caught Daoud's
eye. He turned andsaw Simon de Gobignon looking at him. Why was he alone? Had he, likeDaoud, not wanted any of his comrades to see this horror?
How infuriating it must be for that proud young Frank to have to workclosely with a man like Cardinal de Verceuil. The cardinal was soarrogant, so overbearing, so crude as to turn people _against_ any causehe might support, no matter how worthy.
As the rain fell on him, Daoud hardly noticed it. He saw a new planshimmering like a mirage on the horizon of his mind.
