The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 60

Daoud fixed the man with a stare, thinking of what he would like to do to him. He realized, though, that if he tried to fight his way out of the 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 in thousands, and the dwarf obviously had more pressing business. He reached up to the soft cap on his head, making sure it covered most of his blond hair. Without a word to the man in brown, who had shrunk from his stare, Daoud turned and faced the platform. He was just in time to see the bent dwarf--Erculio, was that his name?--bless himself, just as he had at Lucera.

Daoud's heart pounded as he imagined himself and Lorenzo and Ugolini suffering as this naked, bleeding blistered heretic was.

_And Sophia! G.o.d forbid! I would cut her throat myself before I let anything like this happen to her._

The thought of Sophia being tortured in public was such agony that he wanted to scream and fight his way out of the piazza. He did Sufi breathing exercises to calm himself.

They had tied the moaning victim down on a wooden sawhorse. Lying on his back, he was low enough that the bent man could easily reach any part of him. One of the executioners in red held the victim's mouth open, and the little man reached in with one hand, pulled forth the tongue and sliced it off. Like a jongleur producing an apple from his sleeve, he waved the severed tongue at the crowd, then threw it. A forest of hands clutched at it. Common people everywhere, Daoud recalled, believed that parts 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 tongue and nose gone, the condemned man's screams no longer sounded human. They were like the bellowings of a steer being clumsily slaughtered.

Daoud realized that he was grateful for the problem that the little man presented. It gave him something urgent to think about other than what he was watching.

Erculio now stuck the knife, point down, in the platform and used both hands to tear the heretic's eyeb.a.l.l.s out. The tormented man was silent now. He must have fainted. The little man danced about him, jabbing him repeatedly with the knife until the screams started again.

Were the n.o.bles and churchmen enjoying this as much as the common folk, Daoud wondered. There seemed to be fewer prelates in red and purple on the church and steps when he looked. Ugolini stood with his hands behind his back, turning his eyes away from the scene in the piazza. De Verceuil stared right at the victim, his little mouth open in a grin showing white teeth. D'Ucello stood stolidly between his guards, his arms folded. He did not seem to have moved or changed the expression on his face since Daoud first saw him.

Simon de Gobignon was pale as parchment, and even as Daoud watched, the young man turned and hurried into the cathedral.

_Weakling! It is because of you, too, that this man suffers, but you cannot face it._

Erculio, dancing, grimacing comically under his black mustache, feinted repeatedly with his knife at the condemned man's groin. When the shouts of the crowd had reached a crescendo, he fell upon his victim and sliced away t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and p.e.n.i.s with quick strokes. The heretic gave a long, shivering howl of agony, then was silent. The little man tossed the b.l.o.o.d.y organs into the air. An executioner in red caught them and threw them to the other one, who in turn hurled them into the crowd.

_I hope dozens of them are killed in the scramble. G.o.d forgive me for the 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 in red. The crowd began to back away from the scaffold, and Daoud felt himself irresistibly carried back with them. The executioners tied the limp form of the heretic to the stake jutting up from the center of the platform.

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 it in great circles around his head, and Daoud heard it hissing even over the cheers of the crowd. He swung the flame between his legs and leapt over it. He threw it high in the air, the torch spinning under the thick gray clouds that hung low over Orvieto. Erculio neatly caught it when it came down. For a man so badly deformed, his agility was eerie.

Erculio turned toward the cathedral, holding up the torch. Daoud followed the dwarf's gaze and saw d'Ucello, the podesta, his face a white mask, give a wave of a.s.sent.

Spinning on his heels, the dwarf scurried to the ladder, scrambled down a few rungs, and threw the torch into the tinder piled under the platform. Then he turned and leapt out into s.p.a.ce. The other two executioners had left the platform and stood at the bottom of the ladder, and one of them caught Erculio and swung him down.

The flames shot up with a roar, a red and gold curtain around the heretic. Daoud heard no more cries of pain. Perhaps he was already dead of his wounds. Daoud prayed to G.o.d that it be so.

The smoke did not rise in the hot, moist air, but coiled and spread around the scaffold. People coughed and wiped their eyes and drew back farther from the blaze. Daoud was close enough to feel the heat, and on such a sweltering day it was unbearable. But now, he discovered, he could move. The crowd was dispersing. There was nothing more to see. The heretic was surely dead, and the smoke and flames hid the destruction of his body.

Daoud looked up at the cathedral steps. There were no red or purple robes there, and the papal banner was gone. The Count de Gobignon had reappeared and was staring at the fire. As Daoud watched, the count stumbled 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 in Trebizond?"

Daoud's path was blocked by a man in a scarlet robe. From beneath the wide circular brim of a great red hat, the long, dark face of Cardinal de Verceuil glowered at him. Thick red ta.s.sels hung down from the hat all around the cardinal's head.

Immediately behind de Verceuil stood two attendants. One held high a white banner blazoned with a red cross and a gold flower shape in two of the quarters; the other man, a st.u.r.dy, shaven-headed young cleric in black ca.s.sock, carried a long golden rod that curved into a tight spiral at the top. That was called a crosier, Daoud recalled, and was the cardinal's staff of office. Behind them were four men-at-arms who looked hard at Daoud, as if expecting him to give offense to their master.

Daoud wondered if the cardinal would consider having him killed here in public. Daoud stared at him through the smoky air, measuring him, looking for those small signs of tension to be found in a man about to order 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 am carrying the heretic away in my nostrils and lungs."

Sickened inwardly at this reminder of the rancid smell that had come from the heretic's pyre, Daoud smiled at the grisly jest, as he a.s.sumed the cardinal expected him to. He remained silent, waiting for de Verceuil to reveal the reason for this encounter.

"Ordinarily we merely burn heretics," the cardinal went on. "We had this man tormented first because he threatened our guests, the Tartar amba.s.sadors, and disturbed a service in the cathedral with the pope himself present. We had to be severe with him."

"a.s.suredly," said Daoud, still smiling. De Verceuil's Italian sounded strange to him. He must be speaking it with a French accent.

"But perhaps, since you seem to think the Tartars are such a danger to Christendom," said de Verceuil in a voice that was lower and more menacing, "you approve of what that man did." He gestured toward the burning scaffold. The stake and whatever was left of the body bound to it had fallen through the platform into the pile of f.a.ggots. A breeze had sprung up and was blowing the smoke away from Daoud and the cardinal, for which Daoud thanked G.o.d.

"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 Daoud wondered again if de Verceuil meant to provoke a fight leading to a killing. Or perhaps have him arrested. He looked past de Verceuil and his men and saw that some curious citizens had formed a circle around himself and the cardinal. And there was de Gobignon, standing watchfully only a short distance away at the foot of the cathedral steps. Was his sword, too, at the cardinal's command?

"If you are concerned about justice, it is too bad you chose to be Cardinal 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 G.o.d, de Verceuil was not pursuing the matter of Daoud's heresy.

Daoud shrugged. "I have seen what devastation the Tartars do, Your Eminence. With respect, let me say to you that they are as much a danger to 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 spoken to the contessa, and she would be most happy to receive you. The Monaldeschi are the wealthiest family in Orvieto, and they have connections with other great families in the Papal States. If you wish to find good customers for your silks and spices here, it is the contessa you should see. And if you would trade with France, perhaps I can help you there."

The possibility of spending some days and nights in enemy headquarters was intriguing. But would it be prudent to put himself into de Verceuil's and de Gobignon's hands?

Daoud shook his head with what he hoped was a regretful smile. "Forgive me, Your Eminence. Your offer of the contessa's hospitality overwhelms me, but I have already promised to remain with Cardinal Ugolini, and he would be deeply offended if I were to leave him."

De Verceuil glowered. "Ugolini is from Hohenstaufen territory. The Monaldeschi have always been loyal to the pope and have great influence with 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 you will be a wealthy man."

"Could it be that Your Eminence hopes I might change my testimony about the 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 is more important to you than your profit as a merchant?"

Daoud's heart beat harder. That was too close to the mark. It was foolish of him to jest with a man who had the power to condemn him and his friends to be tortured and burned like that poor madman.

"I regret that I have offended Your Eminence," he said. "I have seen what I have seen, and I am honor bound to speak the truth. And profit will do me no good if the Tartars slaughter us all."

"You are ignorant of our ways," de Verceuil said ominously, after a long pause during which Daoud felt raindrops strike his face. "Have a care that you do not slip into pitfalls you cannot possibly foresee."