XXVI
It could not be worse, Rachel thought. She could not be more degraded.An old man, and a Tartar. Were the Tartars even human, she wondered, orwas she about to commit the further abominable sin of mating with ananimal?
The door had closed behind him with a terribly final sound, and he wasstanding in front of it, showing his teeth, large and strong and verywhite, in a broad grin.
She wondered if he could see her knees and hands trembling. If only shehad accepted Signora Tilia's offer to release her from this. Was it toolate? Could she rush past the Tartar to the door and pull it open andrun away? If she did that now, doubtless the Tartar would be insulted.From what she knew about these creatures, it would be very dangerous tomake him angry.
_I will pretend to be sick. When he is not looking, I will stick myfinger down my throat and throw up. That will disgust him so, he willleave me alone._
Or it might antagonize him enough to kill her. Her body broke out in acold sweat. Her eyes were shut, but she heard the monster coming closer.She thought of what he would do to her, and her stomach heaved--shewould throw up even without trying to. She hoped he _would_ kill her.Better that than his animal's thing inside her.
She opened her eyes, to see that he had stopped halfway between theclosed door and the bed.
Actually, he was not so hideous. He had a round brown face and brightblack eyes, and his beard was white, as Angelo's had been.
_Ah, Rachel, Rachel, the joy of my old age_, Angelo would say. _My beardwas white before you were born._
_He would not rejoice in his old age if he could see me now._
The Tartar's beard and mustache were not full and flowing, as Angelo'shad been, but stringy. The beard almost seemed like a false beard,pasted on that small, sharp chin.
He said, "Buona sera, berra feeria." He had learned some Italian. But itwas not evening. It was almost morning. And what was he trying tosay--"bella figlia?" Beautiful daughter? He had probably asked someonewhat he should say, and they had told him the wrong things.
"Buona sera, Mio Signore," she answered, inclining her head slightly.Her voice was a terrified whisper. When she heard how frightened shesounded, she became more frightened still and huddled into the farthestcorner of the bed, wishing she could squeeze through a crack in the wallbeside her and disappear.
The Tartar tapped his chest, smiling and nodding. "John." He wore acrimson silk tunic that fell to his knees, and over it a pale greengown, open in front, with wide sleeves. When she had stood by a windowin the cardinal's palazzo and watched the Tartars' arrival in Orvieto,he and the other Tartar had worn foreign-looking silk robes, blood red,covered with blue birds with long golden tails. Now he was dressed likean Italian.
He was still nodding at her, with a questioning look on his face. Hewanted her to say her name.
"Rachel," she said, touching her chest. How small her breasts were, shethought. He could not possibly want a girl with such small breasts. Hecertainly would not want to devour them. She felt sick to her stomachagain.
"Reicho. Buona sera, Reicho." He could not pronounce the letter _l_.
"Buona sera, John," she answered. She was about to smile, but shechecked herself. If she seemed to be encouraging him, he would come ather. Cold sweat broke out over her skin.
_He is going to come at me anyway._
A silver pitcher of wine with two silver goblets stood on a smallmarble-topped table beside the bed. Wine might make this easier for her.Except that too much wine would make her sick. Well, was that not whatshe wanted? She stretched a trembling hand toward it.
"Will you take some wine, Messer John?" _Where on earth did he get aname like John?_
She poured the wine, carefully filling the goblets only two-thirds fullso her trembling hands would not spill their contents.
The Tartar crossed the room and sat in the round-bottomed chair Tiliahad occupied a short while earlier. Rachel held out a goblet to him, andher hand shook so badly she almost dropped it. He did not seem tonotice. Maybe he was used to being waited on by trembling women. Hesmiled and nodded.
Tilia was watching all this, Rachel remembered. She drained her cupquickly, the silver giving the wine a slightly metallic taste. Shepoured a second cup for herself, and looked at him. He barely sippedfrom his goblet before setting it on the table, holding his hand palmdown over it. Too bad, she thought. She had heard that men who drank toomuch could not get stiff enough to go into women.
John started talking to her in his own tongue. He spoke for a long timewith many gestures, some toward himself, some toward her. She trieddesperately to guess what he was saying. She did not want to respond thewrong way and anger him.
He seemed quite at ease, and he laughed occasionally, as if he weretelling her funny stories that amused him as well. She saw webs of finewrinkles in the brown skin around his eyes and thought, _He could beolder than Angelo_.
He began to make a strange sound, a long-drawn-out moan. Perhaps he wasin pain. Perhaps _he_ was going to be sick. Her heart leapt hopefully.Then the moan changed pitch, and his mouth began to shape words. Theymust be Tartar words. He was singing to her. It was unmistakably a song,but it was strange and shrill to her ears. She almost burst outlaughing, but immediately felt terror at the thought of offending him.
It began to dawn on her, though, that John was not behaving like abrute, as she had feared he would when she first saw him in the doorway.If she looked behind the black slits that were his eyes, under thetanned-leather skin, he seemed a pleasant old man. His language might begibberish to her, but it was clear that he was trying to entertain her,even woo her.
But she hated the thought of what he was trying to woo her _for_.
He ended his song by clapping his hands rhythmically--she counted ninehandclaps. He followed that with more eager smiles and nods. He actuallywanted to know whether she liked his song. She relaxed a bit.
She smiled and nodded back. "Yes. Very good, John. Che bello!" Perhapsshe could get him to sing more, and put off the moment she dreaded.
But he stood up with a look on his face that froze her heart in herchest. There was nothing ferocious or cruel in it or even lustful. Therewas neither kindness nor pity in it, nor anything that recognized her asa person. It was the satisfied smile of a man looking upon a possession.
He slipped off the wide-sleeved gown and unbuckled his belt. She beganto tremble uncontrollably.
* * * * *
Daoud sat slumped with exhaustion on the carpeted floor of Ugolini'scabinet. The long night just past had drained him of all his energy. Hewanted to sleep, but first he must see to it that Ugolini made good useof the advantage they had gained at the contessa's reception.
A strong, rich, familiar smell filtered into his nostrils, and his headlifted, as if a powerful hand had gripped it. The door opened, and aservant carried in a tray laden with six small porcelain cups, one eachfor Ugolini, Daoud, Sophia, and Lorenzo and two extra, as well as twopitchers. Ugolini pushed aside a pile of parchment on his work table,and the servant set the tray down.
As the door closed behind the servant, Daoud drew a deep breath toidentify the smell and felt a glow of surprised pleasure.
"Is it possible?" he said to Ugolini. "You have found kaviyeh?"
Ugolini, sitting in the big chair behind his work table, just his headand shoulders showing, smiled benignly. "You may hate the Tartars forinvading the Islamic lands, my friend, but it means that we Christianscan now trade with that part of the world. The Venetians have beenimporting the beans from the uplands of Persia in small--and veryexpensive--quantities. I was saving this for a special occasion. Thismorning, after your triumph over the Tartars and your narrow escape fromdeath, seemed appropriate."
Daoud found the strength to stand up and pour the steaming black liquidfrom the pitcher into a cup. He held the cup to his face with both handsand sniffed deeply. He felt happier than he had in a long time.
Sophia, sitting on a padded bench against the wall op
posite Ugolini'stable, said, "What is that?" Daoud heard shrill alarm in her voice.
She must suspect it was some sort of drug, thought Daoud withamusement.
The cardinal chuckled amiably. "Only a beverage, my dear. Long used inthe Orient by sages and poets. It produces a heightened state ofalertness and vigor."
Daoud sipped the hot liquid. The taste was wondrously bracing aftermonths of deprivation, but it was not quite strong enough.
"This is very good, and I am your grateful slave forever," he said. "Butyou should tell your servants to boil it longer."
Having sensed that Sophia feared his pleasure, he wanted to share itwith her that she might see how harmless it was. He went to her and heldout his cup.
"Try this. Be careful, the cup is hot."
She took the cup from him, her fingers brushing his. He felt a tingle inhis arm. She raised the cup, sniffed suspiciously and grimaced, but tooka small sip.
He was disappointed to see her mouth pucker. She did not like it. Well,he could not expect her to take to it at once. He had been drinking itever since he was a child. Even his crusader family had drunk kaviyeh.
"A very interesting taste," she said, handing back the cup. A Byzantinecomment, he thought. He heard Lorenzo chuckle.
A pang of jealousy shot through him. He could not expect her to likekaviyeh any more than he could expect her to love him. Especially notafter she had been alone in the Monaldeschi atrium with that damnedFrench count.
His longing for Sophia made his heart ache. If only he could have herfor himself, and not be forced to throw her at Simon de Gobignon. Butshe was no more his than that emerald Baibars had entrusted to him.
Resignedly he told himself he must find out what she had accomplished.
"How did you deal with the Frankish count?"
"As you wished me to."
He walked back to the cardinal's table and turned to face her. Her ambereyes were fixed on him. She must have been watching him cross the room.
"Does he want to see you again?" David demanded.
She shrugged. "He did when I left him. But by now he and Cardinal deVerceuil will have talked together and may well realize my part in whatwe did to them."
"Well," said Ugolini, rubbing his hands together. "There will be no moreneed for you to pursue Count Simon, my dear, or for Messer Lorenzo toplay backgammon with the French cardinal. And no need for ourillustrious David to risk further verbal jousting with the Tartars."
Daoud felt a stab of exasperation. Just as he had feared, Ugolini wantedto believe that with last night's triumph over the Tartars, their workwas done. Would he be able to persuade the cardinal to realize this wasonly the beginning of a long struggle--one in which he, Ugolini, mustplay the chief part?
"De Verceuil is a clever but sloppy player," Lorenzo interjected. "Hekept leaving blots less than six points away from me. But I managed tolose eighty florins to him. That kept him interested. Once he decided Iwas not a skillful player, he kept doubling the stakes and pressing meto do the same when the choice was mine." He went over to Ugolini's worktable and poured himself a cup of kaviyeh.
Ugolini laughed. "He must now think his winnings eighty costly florinsindeed." He filled a cup from another pitcher, sprang up, and carriedthe cup across the room to Sophia.
"You will enjoy this spiced milk more than the Muslim kaviyeh. It is myfavorite morning drink."
"You think it is all over, then, Cardinal?" Daoud growled. "I can goaway and leave you in peace--and richer?"
From the suddenly outraged face Ugolini turned toward him, Daoud thoughtthe cardinal might well be wishing the Filippeschi had finished him off.
"Was last night not a victory?" the cardinal asked in a choked voice.
"Do you know the difference between winning a battle and winning a war?"
"What more can the French do?" said Ugolini.
"We must talk about that," said Daoud. "Even though, in spite of thisgood kaviyeh, my body screams for rest." He drained the cup, put itdown, and stretched his arms. With difficulty he brought his anger undercontrol. He must win Ugolini, not turn him into an enemy.
Ugolini had sat down in the high-backed chair behind his work table. Hisslender fingers restlessly polished the dome of the skull with thediagram painted on its cranium that lay before him. He looked as gloomyas if he were contemplating the day when he himself would be reduced tobones. Lorenzo quietly got up and poured himself another cup of kaviyeh.
Daoud turned to Sophia. "How do you think de Gobignon feels towardyou?" He hated to ask the question. He watched her face closely. What hereally wanted to know was how _she_ felt about de Gobignon.
Her eyes were heavy-lidded. Even with Hashishiyya-trained senses, hecould not guess what was behind that damnably unrevealing mask.
"I think I persuaded him that the cardinal's niece neither knows norcares anything about alliances and crusades. I--believe he could come tolove me."
Rage throbbed in his temples. What, in his sheltered existence, couldthe young count have learned of love?
"Love you? Unlikely," Daoud challenged her.
He saw with quick regret that he had hurt her feelings. She recoiled asif struck.
"Do you not think me worthy of a nobleman's love?"
Daoud crossed the room in three quick steps and stood over her. "Suchpampered creatures as he are not capable of love."
The mask was back. She shrugged.
"Love or lust, he is drawn to me. Do you mean to make some use of it?"
"Send him a note by one of the cardinal's servants asking him to meetwith you in a few days' time." Daoud turned and walked to the celestialglobe beside Ugolini's table and spun it absently as he studied Sophia."Let him pick the place, so he feels secure."
Again he had a glimpse through the mask. Her eyes widened in fear. Shethought he meant to kill de Gobignon. That angered him. Did she care somuch for the Frenchman, then, that his possible death made her lose hercomposure?
To Daoud's surprise, Ugolini jumped from his chair and advanced on him,shaking his finger and crying, "All of France will be down on us like anavalanche if you harm that boy."
Daoud checked an impulse to laugh. Ugolini was such a comical figure inthe flapping white robe he had donned on returning to his mansion.
To Daoud, who had lived most of his life among men for whom death was ascommon as fear was rare, the little man's tendency to panic seemedcontemptible. But, anew, he reminded himself that he needed Ugolini andmust treat him with respect.
"Please, Your Eminence," he said. "If I meant to have de Gobignonkilled, I would not involve Sophia. I want her to tell him what we aresupposedly doing. I hope to create conflict among the supporters of thealliance."
"But Sophia takes a great risk meeting with him," said Ugolini. "What ifde Gobignon attempts to force the truth out of her?"
The thought of de Gobignon laying violent hands on Sophia angered Daoud,and he spoke impulsively.
"_Then_ I will kill him."
"God help us!" Ugolini went back to his work table and sat down behindit, his hands over his face.
At once Daoud regretted what he had said. But was there no way toinstill courage into this man?
"There is much work for you to do, Cardinal," he said. "You must notfalter now."
"Then let there be no more talk of killing," said Ugolini fiercely,taking his hands from his face.
Daoud poured himself another cup of kaviyeh and stood looking down atUgolini.
"With so much at stake, surely you know I would not do anything rash."
"You need not think of _doing anything_," Ugolini said, a plea in hiseyes. "As long as the pope delays his decision about the Tartars, yourpeople are safe."
True enough, Daoud thought. Delay was a large part of his mission. But,despite what Ugolini might think, it was not enough. For the safety ofIslam, an alliance between Tartars and Christians must be madeimpossible.
"Your Eminence, will it please you to visit the cardinals who heard theTartars cond
emn themselves last night?" He tried not to make it soundlike an order.
"I see no need for that," said Ugolini.
Of course, Daoud thought. The little cardinal's mind was so full of fearthat he could not see at all.
"But I am hoping that you can organize a delegation of cardinals to goto the pope and urge him to give up the idea of an alliance with theTartars. After all, you are the cardinal camerlengo. Your word hasweight."
Ugolini made a bridge of his interlaced fingers and rested his foreheadagainst them, as if his head ached.
"I have attacked the Tartars at the pope's council." He spoke down athis table, barely loud enough for Daoud to hear him. "I have introducedyou into the highest circles in Orvieto. I have let you recruitcriminals and instigate riots while you live in my mansion. I hear youplotting murder." He looked up suddenly, wild-eyed. "Basta! Enough!"
Despair made Daoud feel weak. He knew this sick feeling came partly frombeing awake all night, poisoning himself with al-koahl, and nearlygetting himself murdered. He told himself it did not matter how he felt.He was Sufi-trained, and could control his feelings. He was a Mameluke,and must remain on the attack.
But he chose not to meet Ugolini's refusal directly.
"I also hope that you will be able to persuade Fra Tomasso d'Aquino towrite an open letter, to the pope or to the King of France, denouncingthe Tartars. Copies of the letter can be circulated to men of influencethroughout Christendom."
Ugolini shook his head, whiskers fluttering. "Fra Tomasso is neutral andwants to stay that way."
_But if I can, I intend to push Fra Tomasso away from his neutrality._
"Surely he could not have failed to be moved by what he heard lastnight," said Daoud. "I could see that he was."
"It will take more than one incident to move Fra Tomasso," said Ugolini.
_Now I have him!_ Daoud glanced at Lorenzo, who nodded encouragingly.
Daoud leaned forward, pressing both hands on the table. "There! Youyourself have said the very thing I have been trying to tell you. Lastnight was just one incident. It was not enough to move Fra Tomasso _or_the cardinals _or_ the pope. We must do more. You can accomplisheverything we want by persuasion and cunning and subterfuge. If you do,I will never have to put my hand to my dagger, and you will have nothingto fear." He shook his open hand at Ugolini. "Take the lead yourself."
Ugolini sat staring at the skull while Daoud held his breath.
The little cardinal pulled at his whiskers and looked up at Daoud. "Whatmust I do?"
Daoud let his breath out. Strength surged back into his body, anddespair fled before it.
"Tell me," he said, "if Fra Tomasso were to turn against the Tartars,what do you think the Franks would do about it?"
Ugolini frowned. "I think that then the only way to reach him would bethrough the Dominicans. If his superiors commanded him to change hisopinion on the Tartars, or to be silent, he would have to obey."
"And who, of the alliance's chief supporters, would speak to theDominican order for the French?" Daoud pressed.
"Count Simon lacks the authority," Ugolini said. "Friar Mathieu iseloquent and knows the Tartars well, but I cannot imagine that the chiefDominicans would pay any attention to an ordinary Franciscan priest."
"What of de Verceuil?" Daoud asked.
Ugolini nodded. "As a cardinal, de Verceuil can speak as an equal to thehead of the Dominican order."
"Good," said Daoud. "That is what I hoped you would tell me." He turnedaway from Ugolini. He had accomplished as much as he could for themoment. Exhaustion struck him like a mace on the back of his head.
"Lorenzo, when you meet that bravo Sordello, tell him that I havedecided he and the three with him can join us. I am going to bed."
"I have a bad feeling about him," said Lorenzo.
Daoud paused to consider this. It was precisely for such advice that heneeded Lorenzo.
He put his hand on Lorenzo's shoulder. "If he is spying on us, we needto know who sought to place him in our camp. Let him feel he is securewith us. Then start keeping a close watch on him. See to whom he leadsus."
Daoud turned from Lorenzo to look at Sophia. She was looking at himintently, but he could not tell what she was thinking or feeling. Tiredas he was, he wished she would come to bed with him. If only she werewilling. If only he could invite her.
* * * * *
Rachel lay with her face to the wall, crying silently. She wanted not toweep because she was still afraid of offending the Tartar, even thoughit was all over.
She realized that her gown was still above her waist, and she lifted herhips to pull it down. But what was the point of modesty for her anymore?Especially with this man, who had taken her virginity.
She heard the rustling of silk as he dressed behind her. He had nottaken all of his clothes off, just enough to bare his member. It hadbeen smaller than she imagined. Once, in a stable in Perugia, a boy hadshown himself to her and tried to rape her, but she had run away. Thatstableboy's thing had been much bigger.
John said something to her, but she understood only his "Reicho." He wasprobably telling her to stop crying.
Even though he had been kindly before getting into the bed with her, shehad expected that he would become like the wild, savage Tartars she hadheard about. His weight on top of her, even though he was a small man,had frightened her, but he had entered her slowly, and stopped andwaited when she cried out. In the end it had been she, wanting indesperation to get it over with, who finished the piercing by pressingupward with her hips. His few quick thrusts and his shout of pleasure--adrawn-out horseman's yell--followed in a moment. And that was all therewas to it.
She sobbed aloud suddenly and bit into the pillow. The thought that herwhole future had been decided by a moment that had not lasted even aslong as it takes to light a candle was too much to bear.
_Angelo would say I am not a good woman anymore._
The Tartar spoke again, and tapped her on the shoulder. His voice wassoft and kind. Quieting her sobs with one last, deep, shuddering sigh,she rolled over to look at him. More smiles and nods from him. Yes, hewanted to cheer her up. She sensed that he knew something about women,and what he knew had come not just from rapes committed on thebattlefield. He must have a wife in the faraway land he came from, andhe must, long ago, have done to that wife what he had just done toRachel. More than one wife, she reminded herself, and more than onedeflowering, because according to Tilia, the Tartars took several wives,as the Muslims did. He was probably a grandfather many times over backin that land.
He stood beside the bed, fully dressed. He had even tucked back andknotted his hair behind his head. His grin broadened when she looked athim. Rachel had not seen a Jewish or a Christian man as old as John withsuch good teeth.
He untied a small bag from his belt. He held it out to her. Should shetake it? Of course she should. Was not getting paid the whole point ofwhat she had just gone through? Was not money what her body was to betraded for from now on?
"Thank you, Messer John," she said, and reached out her hand. But hecame closer and rubbed the soft leather of the bag against her cheeks,to dry her tears. She understood what he was trying to tell her--thatthis money should pay her for her pain. Being a pagan, he could notunderstand the greater pain of her soul because she had sinned, becauseshe had shamed her family and dishonored herself forever.
_But I have no family--none living. That is why I am here._
John put the bag into her hand and closed her fingers over it, thenpushed her hand against her chest. The bag was very heavy for its smallsize. He frowned, put his finger to his lips, and waved his hand. He wastrying to tell her, she thought, that this was a special present forher, that she was not to tell Madama Tilia about it. He did not knowthat Tilia had been watching everything they had done together.
He pressed the callused palm of his hand against her cheek and saidsomething, then turned and quickly walked out of the room.
And Rachel was
alone with her desolation. She wanted to sleep. Therewere no windows in this room, but it must have been morning by now. Sherealized that she did not feel sleepy, although she was tired. She felta dull ache down inside herself, where he had broken the seal of hervirginity. The bag of money lay heavy in her lap. Perhaps if she dranksome wine it would help her sleep.
She heard men's voices, loud and rough, in other parts of the house. Aman laughed, and then a woman laughed. How many men had come with theTartar? She felt too tired even to crawl to the edge of the bed and pourherself the wine. She picked up the money and pushed it under a pillow.Perhaps Tilia had not seen him give it to her. She had done this formoney, and she ought to get as much as she could for it.
The door swung open and Tilia was standing there, her wide mouthstretched in a broad smile, and her hands rose in benediction. "You werejust what he wanted. He seemed most pleased."
Rachel tried to smile. "It was not as bad as I thought it would be."
Tilia shrugged. "Men who are terrible in warfare are sometimes kinder inbed. I thought his zipolo rather small, did you not? That was lucky foryou."
Rachel felt her face grow hot. "I have seen only one other--when it washard like that. And it _was_ bigger."
"Well," said Tilia, "small as this Tartar was, he was able to mount youtwice, and that is remarkable for a white-haired man who has been updrinking all night." Then she laughed. "Ah, but you should have seen theFrench cardinal who came here with this Tartar. He asked for threewomen, and he swived each one of them mightily. Those French! I care notfor their high-horse airs, but they are a lusty lot."
Rachel felt herself smiling. Was it so easy to begin to think like awhore and laugh at whores' jokes?
"Well," said Tilia, "we must get you washed out at once. You do not wantto be giving birth to a little Tartar in your first year as a woman, doyou?" She went to a cabinet and drew out a grayish-white bladder with atube coiled beside it.
"Peculiar-looking if you have never seen one before," said Tilia. "Butthere is nothing to worry about. It does not hurt. We just fill thepig's stomach with warm water and squeeze it, and the water goes throughthe vellum tube and up inside you. The women of Rome used them centuriesago when they did not want to get pregnant. I suppose that is why thebarbarians finally overran Italy."
Rachel looked at the thing Tilia laid on the bed beside her and feltsick.
"Oh, by the way," said Tilia as she went back to the cabinet and got outa basin and a pitcher, "I will let you keep the purse he gave you. Helooked so happy when he left here, I think you deserve it."
The Tartar could come and go as he pleased, thought Rachel, but she muststay. Even now, with over five hundred florins, more money than she hadever had in her life, she was alone. She knew how to travel; she hadtraveled for two years with Angelo. But she also knew the terrors anddangers of the road, dangers that ultimately had killed Angelo.
The best she could hope for was to endure this life for a year or two,get what she could from it, let it make her rich. When she did leave,she would have enough money to hire guards to accompany her. She wouldmake up an elaborate story about her past. She would go where no oneknew her, Sicily perhaps, and begin a new life as a wealthy woman,venturing into banking or trading for herself.
The hope of a wealthy new life--that was the raft that would bear her upwhen she felt she must drown in sorrow.