The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 63

"What is it?"

"Wine mixed with hashish."

Daoud was shocked.

_Filth, spiritual poison!_

Saadi himself had taught him that. And now Saadi had tricked him into sipping the vile stuff.

He swayed on his knees, feeling dizzy and angry. Saadi held up a warning hand.

"Remain in the Presence of G.o.d. He will protect you from the ill effects of the poison. This is the practice."

Daoud struggled back to the infinite emptiness that hid G.o.d, and as he did so he felt his mind clear. The drugs were spreading like tiny flames through his body, but his body was far away. Too far away for him to feel the heat.

Beside him, Saadi said, "Everything made by G.o.d has two sides, a useful side and a harmful side. That which is sometimes a poison can at other times be a medicine. Even kaviyeh, which we drink in such great quant.i.ties to give vigor to our minds, can be a poison. If a substance is taken in the right amount, on the right occasion, with the right att.i.tude, it can unlock doors in the mind. Our lord Baibars, peace be upon him, has told me he plans to send you to the Hashishiyya for further training. This practice will help you to gain more from their teachings--and protect you from being corrupted by them. In the months to come you will learn to take in every kind of intoxicating substance and keep your mind free. This is not magic. This is a power of the spirit. What are you feeling?"

"The drug devours my body, but my mind is in the Presence of G.o.d."

"One day, when you have learned all you can from the Hashishiyya, I will teach you the secret of the most powerful drug of all--soma, the drug that is made by the mind and does not harm the body at all."

_No head for wine? No man in this room is less susceptible to wine._

De Verceuil still stood beside the white-bearded pope. His gloomy face tightened as his eyes met Daoud's.

Daoud dropped to one knee before the pope and kissed the heavy gold ring that bore a tiny engraving of a man in a boat. He saw that the old man was wearing white satin slippers.

Daoud felt so dizzied by the wonder of this moment that the tiled floor seemed to shake under him. He held in his hand the hand of the Pope of Rome, successor to those popes who had sent wave after wave of crusaders crashing against the walls of Islam, whose words had caused the deaths of thousands and thousands of the faithful. He, Daoud ibn Abdallah, once David Langmuir, had penetrated to the very center of Christian power.

_Was there ever a moment like this before in all of time, when a servant of the true G.o.d and a believer in the word of the Prophet held the hand of a pope in his?_

"Messer David of Trebizond, the Venetians have just raised the prices of saffron, curry, ginger, and cardamom," said the pontiff in a deep voice.

"All of which are indispensable to my kitchen. Can you furnish me with spices more cheaply?"

It took all of Daoud's self-control to hold in a burst of laughter. A Mameluke comes face-to-face with the pope, and what do they discuss? The price of spices!

But he sobered as he realized how useful the pope's interest in spices could be to him. As a purveyor of spices to the papal palace, his position in Orvieto would be more respected and more secure.

"If you deal with us, Holy Father, you are dealing with the people from whom the Venetians get those spices," said Daoud with a smile as he stood up. "This is exactly the purpose of my visit."

"Good, good. Have Cardinal Ugolini arrange an appointment for you with my steward."

As they walked away, Daoud said softly to Ugolini, "Would it not be amusing if the Sultan of Cairo were to furnish the spices for the pope's kitchen?" The irony of it once again struck him as funny. What a tale for the bazaars of El Kahira.

Ugolini stared at him, side whiskers quivering. "Not amusing at all."

_Ugolini is right to be afraid. I saw what they did to that man in the piazza. I must not make jokes. Ugolini needs to feel he can rely on me._

Celino emerged from the circle around the Tartars to stand before Daoud.

At Daoud's insistence the Sicilian wore garments tailored specially for this evening, mostly in white, with gold embroidery on the edges of his waist-length ermine-trimmed cape and his satin tunic.

"What are the Tartars doing?" Daoud asked.

"Sitting and drinking and mostly talking to each other," said Celino.

"There is a crowd of curious people around them, asking them questions."

"Where is that Friar Mathieu who interprets for them?"

Celino shrugged. "Not here. There is a woman from some eastern country translating."

Daoud felt a tingle of excitement, like a hunter who had sighted prey.

He surveyed the room. Simon de Gobignon--_may his right hand rot and wither_--had already left with Sophia, as Daoud and Sophia had planned.

De Verceuil still hovered near the pope.

"Celino, you heard the contessa's servant announcing games in the next room? See if you can draw Cardinal de Verceuil into a game with you."

"He favors backgammon," said Ugolini.

"All the French dote on backgammon," said Celino.

"Keep him entertained," said Daoud.

"To entertain de Verceuil you will have to bore yourself," said Ugolini.

"He prefers a game whose outcome is never in doubt."

Daoud and Ugolini turned to the serving table, and Daoud began methodically to work his way through the various dishes the contessa's servants had set out for her guests. There were eels steeped in a strange, almost rotten-smelling sauce, there were small, tender lobsters and large, meaty ones. There were baby birds meant to be eaten bones and all. There was white bread and there were fine cakes. Daoud filled his stomach, forcing himself to eat even those foods that repelled him, while he watched Celino join the group gathered with the pope.

Daoud used his dagger to cut himself a slice of roast veal. It was juicy and tender, and he cut himself another. The meat tasted as if the calf had been killed that same day; it was not heavily spiced. How pleasant to dine at the home of a wealthy woman. By the time he finished his fourth slice, Celino and de Verceuil were in conversation.

Daoud chatted with Ugolini about astrology. In the cardinal's opinion it was an auspicious night, and that a.s.sessment of the heavens helped calm the bewhiskered little man somewhat.

It being harvest season, the contessa's tables were laden with fresh fruits. Daoud enjoyed apricots and grapes, and sliced open an orange. He watched Celino and de Verceuil move toward the galleria, where the contessa's guests were playing games.

Daoud eyed the two brown-skinned men in their shimmering robes sitting at their ease in the sala maggiore in the midst of a circle of curious people. Their chief guardians, de Verceuil, de Gobignon, and Friar Mathieu, were all elsewhere.

Daoud, as was customary among these people, dipped his hands in a basin of water and wiped them on the table linen. Then he began to push his way into the ring of people around the Tartars.

After a few moments he found himself staring down at them. They were laughing together over some private joke, speaking to each other in their chirping language.

Fra Toma.s.so was part of the group around the Tartars, as were several bishops and two cardinals. A stout, middle-aged woman stood beside John, the older of the two. She wore a stiff, brocaded blue gown, and her hair was tightly wrapped in a net of gold thread.

"Madonna Ana," said Fra Toma.s.so, "ask Messer John Chagan for me whether the city called Karakorum is still the capital of the Tartar empire."

The woman turned to the white-bearded John and repeated the question in rapid-flowing Tartar speech.