The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 64

John bowed and smiled to Fra Toma.s.so and spoke to the woman. Daoud almost felt envy at the sight of John's gorgeous ankle-length silk robe--white, printed with flowers having ma.s.sive, many-petaled crimson and purple heads, along with cl.u.s.ters of green leaves and wispy gold clouds. He gestured as he spoke, and his hands were square, short-nailed, and hard-looking. Daoud had no doubt that those hands had taken many lives.

"Messer John says the capital of their empire is wherever the Great Khan makes his home," said the Bulgarian woman in a flat tone. "It used to be Karakorum. But now the Great Khan is building a city in the land of Cathay. The city is called--Xanadu."

"And how long would it take to travel from Baghdad to this Xanadu?" Fra Toma.s.so asked.

"Messer John says for a party of Christians to go to Xanadu from Baghdad might take as long as a year. But for the Tartar post riders it takes two months."

"Two months!" exclaimed Fra Toma.s.so. "For a journey that would take ordinary men a year? How far is it?"

"Permit me to answer that, Father," Daoud interrupted, "because the Tartars do not know your system of measurements. The roads between Baghdad and the great cities of Cathay are tortuous, and vast deserts and huge mountains stand in the way. But our geographers in Trebizond estimate that a caravan going over that route would travel a distance of three thousand leagues."

"And the Tartars cover that in two months? Do they fly?" The fat monk's jowls quivered. Daoud noticed that the front of his white tunic was stained with what appeared to be spots of gravy and wine.

Daoud turned to Ana. "Kindly ask the amba.s.sadors to explain to Fra Toma.s.so how their riders cover such a distance so quickly."

After some conversation between Ana and the Tartars, Fra Toma.s.so had his answer. "The fastest riders and horses in our empire carry messages in relays over the major routes. A message never stops traveling, night and day, until it reaches its destination. At night, runners with torches guide the riders."

The Italians looked awed. Daoud felt unimpressed. The Mamelukes also had post riders. They could carry a message from El Kahira to Damascus in four days.

"How intelligent!" said Fra Toma.s.so. "I will warrant we would be better governed here in Europe if we had such a system."

The note of admiration in Fra Toma.s.so's voice made Daoud uneasy. A servant pa.s.sed, offering cups of wine on a tray. Daoud took a goblet.

John and Philip raised the empty cups they held, and Ana refilled them from a pitcher on the table.

"Your empire is so vast, is it not," Daoud said to the Tartars through Ana, "that even messages that travel swiftly cannot hold it together?"

Philip, the black-bearded Tartar, answered that, smiling. "Fear of the Great Khan holds our empire together," Ana translated.

"Is the Great Khan feared even in the lands of Kaidu Khan and Baraka Khan?" Daoud asked, naming the two rebels who did not recognize Hulagu Khan's brother Kublai. He strove for a tone of innocent curiosity.

The faces of the two Tartars remained expressionless, but Daoud, schooled by his Hashishiyya masters to notice signs of emotion in the most guarded of men, observed the flush creeping into their brown cheeks, the slight quickening of their breathing, and the twitching of their fingers. Until he asked his disturbing question they had answered Daoud readily, almost casually, as they would any of the contessa's other guests. Now, in silence, they studied him. Waiting for them to finish their inspection, Daoud held out his wine cup to Ana, who filled it from the pitcher on the table. The pitcher was almost empty, and she signaled to a servant to bring another.

John Chagan said, and Ana translated, "I do not believe we have had the honor of being presented to you, Messere."

Daoud turned to Fra Toma.s.so, who was following the conversation closely.

"Will you be good enough to introduce us, Your Reverence?" Any opportunity to involve himself with the Dominican philosopher could be useful.

While Fra Toma.s.so presented him and Ana translated, Daoud stared at the Tartars with deliberate challenge, draining his wine cup. Philip caught the meaning of the gesture at once, and drank deep from his silver goblet as well. John followed suit.

"Trebizond," said John. "Not far from our borders." Daoud had wondered whether any of the Tartars' sponsors had told them of David of Trebizond and his testimony against them at the pope's council.

"Your khan, Hulagu, has already pressed our emperor for tribute and submission," said Daoud, refilling his cup. He tensed, wondering whether he was pushing the Tartars too far, too quickly. If they grew insulted and refused to speak to him, he would have accomplished nothing.

He sipped his wine. Before tonight, the taste of wine had always puckered his mouth, and he had had to force himself to drink it. But this straw-colored wine was as sweet as spring water. John and Philip seemed to enjoy it, too. They quickly emptied and refilled their cups.

Daoud watched the two Tartars closely as Ana translated his last remark.

A suggestion of amus.e.m.e.nt played about the eyes of the white-bearded John Chagan. John, he guessed, must be about sixty years of age. Old enough to have ridden under the founder of the Tartar empire, the ruler called Genghis Khan. Philip, whose face was fuller, was probably half John's age.

"We are at peace with Trebizond," said John. "We have exchanged amba.s.sadors." He took a gulp of wine and emitted a deeply satisfied sigh.

"How can a people who believe that the whole world belongs to them remain long at peace with anyone?" asked Daoud. He watched the woman, Ana. If she were to dull the edge of what he said in translating it, his effort would fail. But she seemed unmoved by what he said and repeated it quickly in the Tartar tongue.

But now the two Tartars were glaring at him, Philip in open fury, John with a cold hostility as if Daoud were an insect that needed to be stepped on.

How much farther could he press them, he wondered as he took another sip of wine and stared back.

XXII

Sophia felt cooler here, in the atrium of the Palazzo Monaldeschi, than she had in the sala maggiore. A breeze blew through the archway that led to the rear courtyard of the palace, but it did not blow hard enough to keep the mosquitoes away. Nor did the essence of lemon in the wax candles in lanterns that lit the atrium repel the whining little pests, though it scented the air pleasantly, mingling with the sachet of dried orange cuttings she wore under her gown, between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

To protect herself from the insects, Sophia wrapped her shawl around her bare shoulders and drew her gauze veil over her face. She thought it made her look more mysteriously attractive as well. Perhaps that was the real reason Muslim women were willing to wear veils. She wondered whether Daoud had a lover or a wife back in Cairo.

Probably half a dozen of each.

She glanced over at the young French count, walking solemnly beside her with his hands clasped behind his back. The mosquitoes did not seem to bother him, or at least he did not slap at them. Well, he was a tall, thin man with sharp features, dark hair, and pale skin. She imagined the blood of such a man might taste sour and not draw mosquitoes. He was good to look at, surely, but there was a bitterness about him. She saw at once that he was not a happy man.

"Perhaps I should not walk alone with you like this, Madonna," he said.

Actually, his Italian was not difficult for her to understand; she had criticized it only to throw him off balance when she first met him.

Probably her French was no better than his Italian, but he had been too gallant to say so.

"Do you fear for your virtue, Your Signory?" she asked lightly.

He smiled, and even in the dim lantern light his face took on a sweetness that was quite at odds with his previous solemn appearance.

"My virtue, such as it is, is yours to dispose, Madonna." She felt warmed within by his words and the beauty of his smile.

They paused by a square pool in the center of the atrium. He bent and dipped his cupped hands, then held them out to her filled with water.

"The contessa has told me that the pool is fed by an underground spring," he said. "The water is the purest I have ever tasted. Try it."

"Do the Monaldeschi keep fish in it?" She hesitated, thinking of Cardinal Ugolini's vivarium.

"No. This is their drinking water. Taste it." She lifted her veil and lowered her mouth into his hands. The water was pure and sweet, just as he had said. As a lover, she thought, Simon would be like this water--sweet, not bitter.

The water was gone and her lips touched his palm. Deliberately she paused a moment before drawing back.

He moved toward her, holding out both hands, but she turned as if she had not noticed and took a step away from him on the gravel, dropping the gauze veil before her face.

"You have not explained to me why you think you should not be walking alone with me, Your Signory."

"Ah--well--" He had to gather his thoughts, she saw. Such a _boy_. She'd had a middle-aged emperor and a splendid young king as lovers. She now felt herself in love with a strange Saracen warrior, a Mameluke, who was subtle, ruthless, kindly, mysterious, daring--so many things, it dizzied her to think about him.

But Simon's simplicity brought back memories of Alexis, the boy she had loved when she herself was as innocent as Simon now appeared to be.

Simon said, "Because your uncle leads the faction here in Orvieto that opposes the Tartars. And because the chief witness against them has been the merchant David, who dwells, as you do, in the cardinal's house."