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

Even though he had given no outward sign that he was praying, Daoud was angered at being interrupted. He eyed Sordello. The man was shorter than he, about fifty years of age, Daoud judged. His hair was a good deal grayer than Lorenzo's, and it hung lankly down to his jawline under a shabby maroon cap. The bones of Sordello's nose and brows were thickened and flattened, as if they had been broken many times. It was the face of an old fighter, the sort of face that usually commanded Daoud's respect, be it borne by Christian or Muslim. But when Daoud looked at him, Sordello stared back fixedly, unnaturally, as if it were an effort to look Daoud in the eye.

"Was your advice asked, Messere?" Lorenzo growled.

He feels about the man as I do, Daoud thought. Now, Daoud thought, Sordello would bluster about saving their lives, and he would ask for employment.

"Forgive me," Sordello said. "I presumed too much." He pulled off his cap and bowed to the surprised Daoud. Either he was a better man than he seemed at first glance, or he was much more devious.

"Forgive us," Daoud said, bowing back, though not as deeply, and drawing a disapproving grunt from Lorenzo. "We owe you our deepest gratitude. How came you leaping down from the housetops when we needed help so badly?"

"I have been looking for a chance to meet Messer Giancarlo. Tonight I waited outside the Monaldeschi palace, hoping that you would emerge from the reception in a good mood. While I and my fellows were hanging about the palace, we chanced to see those brigosi lurking in the shadows nearby. When you came out, it was[299] you they chose to follow, so we followed them. When you went down this alley, we took to the rooftops, the better to surprise your enemies."

"Why were you looking for me?" Lorenzo asked gruffly.

"I heard that you pay well for men who are adept with sword and dagger and who ask no questions about what they might be hired for."

"I also like a man who does not talk much," said Lorenzo. "You talk a great deal."

"Yes, Messer Giancarlo." Sordello lowered his eyes. Again, that disarming humility.

The man was resourceful and quick-thinking. He was arrogant one moment, humble the next.

"How did you come to Orvieto, Sordello?" Daoud asked him.

"I served Sigismundo Malatesta, governor of Rimini, until his death," said Sordello. "Since then I have not found a suitable master. I was traveling south, thinking perhaps of offering my sword to King Manfred, when I heard of you, Messer Giancarlo, while passing through Viterbo."

Daoud felt uneasy, hearing that Lorenzo's recruiting expeditions were being gossiped of in the cities around here. And how easily Sordello had been able to make the connection between Giancarlo and David of Trebizond. Just as Tilia had said, it was impossible to hire men without attracting attention.

He realized Lorenzo was waiting for him to speak.

"You may walk with us to Cardinal Ugolini's mansion," Daoud said.

When they emerged from the alley, there was no sign of the Filippeschi. Two of Sordello's men walked in front of Daoud and Lorenzo, and Sordello and the other man followed behind them. The wine had worn off altogether, but Daoud felt a throbbing pain behind his eyes and a great need to sleep.

"Well?" Lorenzo said, keeping his voice low. "The man wants us to hire him."

"We need more men, and we want clever street fighters," said Daoud. "He is that."

"Yes, but he is the type of man I detest," said Lorenzo. "I did not need him to kill that Filippeschi bravo for me. He acts before he thinks."

"After tonight we may not have to attack the French directly," Daoud said. "On the other hand, we are sure to have further need[300] of bodyguards, and I think Sordello and his three companions would suit. Let us give ourselves time to think. Tell him you will meet him and give him our answer in two days."

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, or was she about to commit the further abominable sin of mating with an animal?

The door had closed behind him with a terribly final sound, and he was standing in front of it, showing his teeth, large and strong and very white, in a broad grin.

She wondered if he could see her knees and hands trembling. If only she had accepted Signora Tilia's offer to release her from this. Was it too late? Could she rush past the Tartar to the door and pull it open and run away? If she did that now, doubtless the Tartar would be insulted. From what she knew about these creatures, it would be very dangerous to make him angry.

I will pretend to be sick. When he is not looking, I will stick my finger down my throat and throw up. That will disgust him so, he will leave me alone.

Or it might antagonize him enough to kill her. Her body broke out in a cold 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—she would 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 the closed door and the bed.

Actually, he was not so hideous. He had a round brown face and bright black eyes, and his beard was white, as Angelo's had been.

Ah, Rachel, Rachel, the joy of my old age, Angelo would say. My beard was white before you were born.[301]

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's had 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 it was not evening. It was almost morning. And what was he trying to say—"bella figlia?" Beautiful daughter? He had probably asked someone what 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 she sounded, she became more frightened still and huddled into the farthest corner of the bed, wishing she could squeeze through a crack in the wall beside her and disappear.

The Tartar tapped his chest, smiling and nodding. "John." He wore a crimson silk tunic that fell to his knees, and over it a pale green gown, open in front, with wide sleeves. When she had stood by a window in 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 like an Italian.

He was still nodding at her, with a questioning look on his face. He wanted her to say her name.

"Rachel," she said, touching her chest. How small her breasts were, she thought. He could not possibly want a girl with such small breasts. He certainly would not want to devour them. She felt sick to her stomach again.

"Reicho. Buona sera, Reicho." He could not pronounce the letter l.

"Buona sera, John," she answered. She was about to smile, but she checked herself. If she seemed to be encouraging him, he would come at her. 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 small marble-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 what she wanted? She stretched a trembling hand toward it.

"Will you take some wine, Messer John?" Where on earth did he get a name like John?[302]

She poured the wine, carefully filling the goblets only two-thirds full so her trembling hands would not spill their contents.

The Tartar crossed the room and sat in the round-bottomed chair Tilia had occupied a short while earlier. Rachel held out a goblet to him, and her hand shook so badly she almost dropped it. He did not seem to notice. Maybe he was used to being waited on by trembling women. He smiled and nodded.

Tilia was watching all this, Rachel remembered. She drained her cup quickly, the silver giving the wine a slightly metallic taste. She poured a second cup for herself, and looked at him. He barely sipped from his goblet before setting it on the table, holding his hand palm down over it. Too bad, she thought. She had heard that men who drank too much could not get stiff enough to go into women.

John started talking to her in his own tongue. He spoke for a long time with many gestures, some toward himself, some toward her. She tried desperately to guess what he was saying. She did not want to respond the wrong way and anger him.

He seemed quite at ease, and he laughed occasionally, as if he were telling her funny stories that amused him as well. She saw webs of fine wrinkles in the brown skin around his eyes and thought, He could be older than Angelo.

He began to make a strange sound, a long-drawn-out moan. Perhaps he was in pain. Perhaps he was going to be sick. Her heart leapt hopefully. Then the moan changed pitch, and his mouth began to shape words. They must 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 out laughing, but immediately felt terror at the thought of offending him.

It began to dawn on her, though, that John was not behaving like a brute, 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 the tanned-leather skin, he seemed a pleasant old man. His language might be gibberish 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 nine handclaps. He followed that with more eager smiles and nods. He actually wanted to know whether she liked his song. She relaxed a bit.

She smiled and nodded back. "Yes. Very good, John. Che[303] bello!" Perhaps she 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 her chest. There was nothing ferocious or cruel in it or even lustful. There was neither kindness nor pity in it, nor anything that recognized her as a 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 began to tremble uncontrollably.

Daoud sat slumped with exhaustion on the carpeted floor of Ugolini's cabinet. The long night just past had drained him of all his energy. He wanted to sleep, but first he must see to it that Ugolini made good use of the advantage they had gained at the contessa's reception.

A strong, rich, familiar smell filtered into his nostrils, and his head lifted, as if a powerful hand had gripped it. The door opened, and a servant carried in a tray laden with six small porcelain cups, one each for Ugolini, Daoud, Sophia, and Lorenzo and two extra, as well as two pitchers. 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 to identify 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 head and shoulders showing, smiled benignly. "You may hate the Tartars for invading the Islamic lands, my friend, but it means that we Christians can now trade with that part of the world. The Venetians have been importing the beans from the uplands of Persia in small—and very expensive—quantities. I was saving this for a special occasion. This morning, after your triumph over the Tartars and your narrow escape from death, seemed appropriate."

Daoud found the strength to stand up and pour the steaming black liquid from the pitcher into a cup. He held the cup to his face with both hands and sniffed deeply. He felt happier than he had in a long time.

Sophia, sitting on a padded