The Saracen: Land of the Infidel by Robert Shea (poetry books to read txt) 📖

Beside him, Saadi said, "Everything made by God has two sides, a useful side and a harmful side. That which is sometimes a poison[249] can at other times be a medicine. Even kaviyeh, which we drink in such great quantities 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 attitude, 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 God."

"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 God 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![250]

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.[251]

"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 assessment 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 Tomasso 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 Tomasso, "ask Messer John Chagan for me whether the city called Karakorum is still the capital of the Tartar empire."[252]

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

John bowed and smiled to Fra Tomasso 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 massive, many-petaled crimson and purple heads, along with clusters 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 Tomasso 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 Tomasso. "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 ambassadors to explain to Fra Tomasso how their riders cover such a distance so quickly."

After some conversation between Ana and the Tartars, Fra Tomasso 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 Tomasso. "I will warrant we would be better governed here in Europe if we had such a system."[253]

The note of admiration in Fra Tomasso's voice made Daoud uneasy. A servant passed, 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 Tomasso, 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 Tomasso 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[254] 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 amusement 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 ambassadors." He took a gulp of wine and emitted a deeply satisfied sigh.

"How can a people who believe that