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

I had no chance to weep for him when he was killed.

"Suppose he is in some Christian heaven looking down at me. What would he think?"

Daoud started at the sound of his own words.

I must be drunk. I would never speak so in front of Lorenzo—or anyone—otherwise.

"Who is looking down at you?" Lorenzo asked. His shoulders were hard and broad under Daoud's arm, and he seemed to bear[282] Daoud's weight without the least difficulty. They were past the cathedral now, following a straight, fairly wide street that gently sloped downward. Broken clouds drifted away from the half moon. Like a watchman's lantern it hung over the center of the street, between the overhanging second stories of the houses.

"My father," said Daoud, and a sob bubbled up in his throat as he softly spoke the word, albeit in the unfamiliar tongue of Italy. "How he must hate me and curse me for fighting for Islam."

Lorenzo halted his stride and lifted his head. Then he started walking again. He raised his hand and gripped the wrist Daoud was resting on his shoulder.

In a very low voice he said, "Someone is following us."

Now Daoud stopped, tensing. He called on the power of his mind to resist the wine. His tears dried on the instant.

"Walk on," said Lorenzo in a low voice. "Keep your arm over my shoulder. Keep talking to me." In a louder voice he said, "I do not believe people's souls go to a heaven of any sort."

"Can they hear us?" Daoud said softly. De Verceuil, he thought. He must have decided to have me killed. His body felt cold. His journey from Egypt and all his work, despite tonight's triumph, might end here on a rain-wet street. And what would happen to Sophia if he were killed?

"They cannot hear what we say. But careful, they might be able to tell from the tone of our voices whether we are aware of them. Can you fight?"

"Not well. Not well at all." The Scorpion, the small crossbow hidden in his cloak, he thought, might account for one or two of them, if he could see well enough to aim it. He blinked his eyes. He saw two moons hanging over the street, blinked again, and saw one.

"Do not Jews believe in an immortal soul?" he asked in a normal voice, keeping up the pretense of conversation.

He cursed his lack of foresight. Why had he not thought to arrange for some of their bravos to meet them and escort them back to Ugolini's palace? Because he did not want himself connected with the fighting men Lorenzo had brought to Orvieto. That it had been a sensible precaution did not ease his anguish now.

"Maimonides writes that men and women live on after they die only in the memory of others," said Lorenzo. "Of course, orthodox rabbis say that Maimonides was a heretic."

"If the dead live on only in memory, then my father is truly[283] dead, because I have done nothing for his memory, and I fight against all that he fought for."

Daoud realized that his wine-numbed mind was hardly working. He was relying on Lorenzo to think of some way to get them through this. He hated having his life depend on another man's cleverness. He tried to free his thoughts from the poisonous grip of al-koahl. It had been easier earlier this evening, but he was very tired now.

"I prefer to believe that people become more broadminded after they die," said Lorenzo. "They come face-to-face with the truth, whatever it is, and they see how each of us, Turk and Jew and Christian, has been struggling to uphold a dimly glimpsed version of what they see plainly. If they do not feel sorry for us, then probably they laugh at us.

"And now, this way. Move as silently as you can."

Abruptly, holding tight to Daoud's wrist, Lorenzo made a sharp left turn into an alley so narrow it was almost invisible. It was scarcely more than a quintana, a tunnel rather than an alley; the overhanging second stories of the houses on either side actually had a wall in common.

Lorenzo pulling him, Daoud broke into a trot. All around them was a hot blackness reeking of decay. Daoud could hear creatures scrabbling out of his way. Ahead was a bluish oblong—the end of the tunnel and the moonlit space beyond it.

They stopped abruptly. Lorenzo swung Daoud's arm down and stepped away from him, gripping him briefly by the shoulders to brace him.

"Now you must clear your head, Messer David. I hear them coming. I think they saw us duck in here. Get out your sword or your dagger, whatever suits you best, and get ready to fight."

Daoud heard the sound of running boots. He tried to guess how many pursuers there were, but his head was not clear enough of wine fumes for that. He fell against the rough plaster wall. Could he and Lorenzo break through a doorway into a house and hide there? No, the people within would probably give them away.

He heard the slithering sound of Lorenzo's sword being drawn. He decided not to use the Scorpion. It would take too long to load and cock it, and if he fumbled, he would be cut down without a second chance.

His mind was fairly clear of the toxic power of al-koahl, but his body, still in its grip, felt half dead to him.[284]

How can I fight, as dizzy as I am? Thou hast said it, O God, wine is an abomination. Forgive me for drinking it, and help me now.

He reached for his sword, the handsome new one he had bought in Orvieto. He drew it out slowly, as quietly as he could, and hefted it in his hand. A bit late now to wonder how it would stand up in a fight.

The running footsteps stopped suddenly. Looking at the end of the alley, Daoud saw figures silhouetted by the moonlight. He heard voices murmuring. Then the figures seemed to fill the rectangular mouth of the alley. There seemed to be six of them. They moved slowly, cautiously.

"Capons," whispered Lorenzo. "Afraid to charge us. Let us move to where there is light to fight by."

He pulled Daoud after him. Daoud felt his head clearing. He could hear better and, despite the darkness, see better. But he staggered as they ran out of the alley.

They found themselves in a campiello, a courtyard surrounded by houses. In the center, on a small pedestal, was a statue, one of their saint idols, with arms outstretched. Daoud looked quickly around him. There seemed to be no way out but the alleyway they had entered through.

He heard a loud thump to his right. A dark figure suddenly stood there. Another thump on the left, and another in front. Men were jumping down from the rooftops.

In a moment, four men in a rough semicircle faced Lorenzo and Daoud. Blades gleamed silvery in the moonlight.

The six others who had been pursuing them rushed out of the alley.

Filled with a despairing rage, Daoud clenched his teeth and raised his sword.

[285]

XXIV

Rachel's body felt cold. She knew the night outside was warm despite the lateness of the hour, and the room was stifling, with all its candles and the heavy silk draperies that held in the heat. But her feet and hands were icy. It was fear that chilled her so as she sat half listening to Tilia. She huddled in a corner of the big bed, her feet tucked under her, her hands clenched in her lap. She wanted to jump out the window.

Only, she was here of her own free will. And anyway the window was barred.

"We will be watching through spy holes in the walls," said Tilia. "There will be at least three of us. If he hurts you in any way, we will be here in a trice to rescue you."

Tilia Caballo had a face like a frog, Rachel thought. The fat old woman was trying to be reassuring, but just now Rachel hated her. She could not believe Tilia would interfere with a wealthy client's pleasure no matter how badly a girl of hers was being hurt.

The skepticism must have shown in her face, because Tilia had said, "I know this man. He has been here five times. He is not the kind that likes to hurt women. I do have patrons of that sort. For them I supply women like Olivia. Sometime when you are not so frightened I may tell you what Olivia likes men to do to her. Of course, she pretends not to like it. Her clients would get no pleasure if they knew Olivia wanted them to do what they do. But no matter how I gain my livelihood, I am still a woman of honor." She glowered fiercely at Rachel, jowls quivering slightly. "I do not allow certain things to take place in my house. I do not allow my women to be mistreated."

"I know," said Rachel. "That is why I have not run away."

"You need not speak of running away," said Tilia loftily. "The door will be open for you whenever you wish to walk through it." Rachel believed that, just as she had believed gruff Lorenzo Celino[286] when he told her she did not have to go to Tilia's house. But she also knew that if she had not come here, or if she chose now to walk out that door, these people would do nothing more for her.

Staying, much as she might hate what would happen to her, was better than wandering alone on the roads of Italy.

She looked up at the canopy over the bed. It was peach-colored, as were the bed curtains. The walls of the small room were hung with yellow silk drapes framing frescoes showing nude, smiling women fleeing from creatures that were half man and half goat, with things that stuck out before them like spears.

"Real men do not have pizzles as big as that," Tilia had said when she first showed Rachel the room, pointing with a grin at a bright red organ. "Although it may look that big to you the first time you see one in all its glory." Tilia had stopped joking then, and had carefully told her exactly what would happen on this night.

I am better prepared, Rachel thought, than many a woman is on her wedding night.

Indeed, her own mother, months before she died, had already explained much of this to Rachel. But the thought of her mother fairly broke her heart now. Her mother would cut her own throat if she could see Rachel in this place, about to let a man do this thing to her for money.

Her body shrank with dread.

She would rather, far rather, be the ignorant bride of a carpenter or a traveling merchant like her poor Angelo, who had been her husband in name only, or even the wife of a butcher, than to lie here in this gorgeously decorated room and give her most precious gift to a stranger who had bought the right to deflower her.

She found herself wishing poor old Angelo had asserted his right as her husband so that she could not now let her virginity be defiled.

Thank God Angelo is not alive to see this! But if he had lived, I would not be doing this.

God will never forgive me.

But if God does not want me to do what I am doing, why did He let this happen to me?

Tilia sat beside the bed in a big chair with a curved bottom. The jeweled cross she wore—which reminded Rachel that she was among Christians here and therefore not safe—rested on her bosom, half covered by the gold lace bordering the neckline of her gown. The cross quivered minutely with Tilia's heartbeat.[287]

"You are probably wondering, child, whether you are doing the right thing."

"Yes." Rachel was so choked with fear that she could only whisper the word.

"Well, I can tell you there are thousands of women who would give anything to be in your place."

"In my place? To become a putana?"

Tilia laughed. "You think most women are contentedly married, with husbands to take care of them, with children who love them and neighbors who respect them—while only a few like me and the women who work for me are putane, whom the rest look down on. Well, listen to me, little one, other women envy us. A married woman sells herself, body and soul, to be some man's slave for life. And she gets damned little in return. We rent out this little part of our anatomy"—she patted her lap—"for a moment, and we keep the profit for ourselves. If we are clever, as I have been, we learn how to keep and increase our