The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 67

De Verceuil moved closer. Raising his eyes while keeping his head lowered, Daoud found himself staring at the cardinal's belt buckle, a gold medallion displaying an angel's head with wings growing out of its curly hair.

"I have embarra.s.sed no one," Daoud mumbled thickly. "I know John and Philip's people. They are our neighbors." He laughed, and let the laugh go on too long. "We talked about things everybody knows."

He felt those big hands seize the front of his tunic and jerk him to his feet. De Verceuil's flushed face was less than a hand's width from his own. The cardinal's eyes were huge and dark.

Daoud felt his muscles bunch, and he forced them to relax. He felt fear.

Not fear of de Verceuil, whom he could easily kill, but fear of losing control of himself, of letting the Face of Steel show through the Mask of Clay. Such a revelation could put an end to his mission.

"Who the devil are you? What are you doing in Orvieto? Answer me!" De Verceuil shook Daoud violently. Daoud's head rocked back and forth, and he saw two faces of de Verceuil.

Had there been no wine in his blood, it would have been easier for Daoud to control his fear and his anger. He knew he must play at being a merchant who would be terrified at having provoked the wrath of a prince of the Church. But, as it was, he felt himself caught up in a whirlwind of rage, and his hands came up, going for the cardinal's throat. Just in time he changed the move into a cringing, self-protective gesture.

"I could have you killed!" de Verceuil shouted. "And I will if you do not answer me."

"Stop!" The small body of Cardinal Ugolini was beside them, almost between them. "David of Trebizond is my guest." Daoud glanced down at Ugolini and saw that he was trembling violently.

_He thinks I might do something that would expose us all._

"Trebizond!" De Verceuil spat the word. "This man is a d.a.m.ned schismatic Greek who has come here to betray Christianity!"

"On the contrary," said Ugolini, "he may yet save Christendom from a terrible error. De Verceuil, I demand that you take your hands off him."

Daoud let his body go suddenly limp, so that de Verceuil was holding up all of his weight by his tunic. At the jerk on his arms, de Verceuil gave a snort of disgust and let go, pushing Daoud away from him. Daoud collapsed into his chair.

"I am only a trader," he said plaintively to the room in general. "I am sorry I ever said a word to the d.a.m.ned Tartars. It has meant nothing but trouble for me. Why did I not remain silent?" Adding a strong flavoring of drunkenness, he imitated the gestures of Greek merchants he had seen in the bazaars of El Kahira. He turned his head from side to side, surveying the onlookers. He could not see Sophia, which was good. He wanted her, like Lorenzo, far away. Perhaps she was still in the garden with de Gobignon.

No. Daoud saw the young French count's head. He was pushing his way through the audience.

The Contessa di Monaldeschi, her hands nervously smoothing down the front of her blue velvet gown, confronted de Verceuil.

"Eminence, leave this man alone. He is a guest in this house. As you are, which is a thing I begin to regret."

"Contessa, this is all a mistake," said de Verceuil pleadingly. Daoud suspected he feared the ignominy of finding the amba.s.sadors and himself out in the street.

"It is not a mistake." Ugolini seemed to have plucked up his courage now. "My esteemed colleague of the Sacred College is trying to punish David because the Tartars spoke frankly to him. David made no accusations. The Tartars accused themselves."

The contessa seized Ugolini's arm. "Oh, Your Eminence, will G.o.d be angry with me for harboring these demons?"

Ugolini patted her hands. "You cannot be blamed, dear Contessa. You acted in good faith at the request of His Holiness himself. He, having heard what the Tartars said tonight, may also regret this affair."

Ugolini looked accusingly at de Verceuil, who, purple-faced, looked as if he wished he could tear his little colleague of the Sacred College limb from limb.

Now Simon de Gobignon, having broken through the circle of onlookers, declared, "This would not have happened if Friar Mathieu had been here interpreting for the Tartars, guarding them against indiscretions.

Instead, you found this woman who is altogether ignorant of what is at stake here. You had her translate for the Tartars because you begrudge Friar Mathieu his share of the honor of this diplomatic accomplishment.

Except that there will be no accomplishment, because of your bungling."

Tall as de Verceuil was, de Gobignon was taller. Righteous anger made the French boy's blue eyes flash.

Daoud wanted to laugh aloud at the count's fury and de Verceuil's utter embarra.s.sment. But he decided he should be too stupidly drunk to understand what was going on.

"You have no right to criticize me!" de Verceuil shouted.

"Be sure that the Count d'Anjou will hear of this," Simon answered.

_De Verceuil offending Fra Toma.s.so would be even better than de Verceuil shouting at de Gobignon. If there were a way I could make that happen.

Sophia, working through de Gobignon?_

Even though his Sufi training helped him keep his mind clear, puzzling out this new idea was beyond his present powers after all the wine he had drunk.

Daoud let his head fall forward, and his eyes met the penetrating black gaze of John Chagan. John was drunk, and he did not speak the language of these people. But Daoud saw understanding in the crinkled brown face.

John could not know Daoud was a Mameluke, but he knew him for an enemy.

He looked at Daoud with the same icy determination to annihilate all enemies as Daoud had seen staring at him from under the fur-and-iron helmets of the Tartars at the Well of Goliath.

And Daoud, slumped in his chair, felt the same implacable resolution he had felt that day, to fight back until the last invader was driven from the Dar al-Islam, the Abode of Islam.

The Tartar army appeared as a darkness across the eastern horizon, deepening as it spread. Curry-colored clouds towered above the gray-black line like mile-high djinns.

The distant thunder of hooves reached the Mameluke commanders as they halted in the plain between the hills of Galilee and the mountains of Gilboa near a village called Ain Jalut, the Well of Goliath. A fierce sun beat down on yellow gra.s.s and dusty tamarisks.

El Malik al-Mudhaffar Qutuz was mounted on a milk-white stallion from Hedjaz in the midst of his emirs. Baibars al-Bunduqdari rode a fawn-colored half-blood mare, part Arabian and part steppe pony. Daoud, in his early twenties and risen through the ranks of Baibars's personal guard to be second in command of the orta, fifteen thousand strong, sat on his st.u.r.dy Yemenite stallion before the other emirs. His red turban shaded his face and shielded his steel helmet from the sun. His chest was encased in the breastplate of an emir, steel inlaid with gold.

The Mameluke emirs, bashis and muqaddams wore their fortunes into battle--gold bracelets and belts, jeweled rings, necklaces of coins.

Jewels sparkled on their belt buckles and the scabbards and hilts of their scimitars, on their turbans, on the toes of their boots, on their fingers. Over their mail shirts and gold-inlaid breastplates the emirs wore velvet vests and long khalats of crimson or gold satin, lined with white silk, fastened with gold b.u.t.tons, trimmed with silver thread at the collars and cuffs and hems. Silk turbans were wound around their helmets, red, blue, yellow, pinned with jeweled clasps and adorned with the plumes of rare birds. Tied tight around their waists were wide shawls printed with stars and crescents. Their boots were of soft leather, crimson-dyed, with silver spurs, gold buckles, and pointed toes.

_And all that I have_, Daoud thought, _may be torn from me in an instant today_.

From Daoud's neck hung the silver locket given to him by his first, and so far only, wife, Baibars's daughter Blossoming Reed. It was, she had told him, a magical thing.

The Mamelukes were now the last defenders of Islam. The Tartars having conquered Baghdad and Damascus, El Kahira was the only remaining center of Muslim strength. If the Tartars overcame the Mamelukes, all that remained of the Dar al-Islam would lie open to the invaders, even the holiest place of all, Mecca, the house of G.o.d.

"We are a hundred thousand and they not a fourth of that," said Qutuz almost petulantly, his eyes fixed on the oncoming Tartars. "How can they dare to turn and fight us?"

"They are Tartars," said Baibars. "They do not fear the numbers of their enemies."

"Being a Tartar yourself, you can tell us how they think," said Qutuz.

Daoud heard a faint undertone of contempt in the Kurd's voice. Baibars must have heard it, too; Daoud saw his lord's cheeks darken slightly.

Looking into the sultan's set face, Daoud realized that Qutuz, despite his apparent disdain, had already given up the battle. His lips, almost hidden in his oiled black beard, were pressed tight, in an effort to keep them from trembling.

The Mamelukes might outnumber the Tartars today, but the Tartars had never been defeated anywhere in the world. The sultan must have led the army to what he saw as certain death, for himself and all of them, only because he knew his Mameluke emirs would depose and kill him if he did not.

_How can a Mameluke fear death, or even defeat? Qutuz has been sultan too long._

"With the help of G.o.d, my brothers," said Qutuz, his voice hollow, "let us ride forth and slay them. I will command the center, Kalawun the left wing, and Baibars the right. When you see my green banner dip, we will advance to surround and destroy them."

_He does not believe that G.o.d will help him_, thought Daoud. _And he does not believe he can help himself._