The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Read online

  VI

  Crushed, Simon decided that at least he would quarter his French knightsand the Venetian archers as near to the doge's palace as possible. Thedoge alone would be protecting the Tartars for the time being, and Simonhad no choice about it.

  With Sordello's help he found lodgings for his men at the outrageousprice of two deniers a night per man--not all the thieves were on thehighways--at the nearest inn to the Piazza San Marco, just a shortdistance down a side street. How much of what he paid the innkeeper, hewondered, would end up in Sordello's purse?

  Then, accompanied by Alain de Pirenne, he walked back to the entrancegate to the doge's palace, a long three-story building that stretchedfrom the waterfront to the basilica. He sent a message in by way of aguard, asking Friar Mathieu to meet him in the piazza. The kindlyFranciscan was, he suspected, the most important person in the Tartars'entourage.

  Simon and Alain had taken off their mail and were more comfortablydressed in silk tunics, short capes, and velvet caps. Each still worehis weapons belt, with longsword hung on the left and dagger on theright. The leather heels of their point-toed boots rang on the stones ofthe piazza as they paced, waiting to see if Friar Mathieu would comeout.

  Alain was still indignant.

  "They have no idea who you are, Simon. Why, you could take this wholecity and set it in one corner of the Gobignon domain and it would neverbe noticed." Normally ruddy, Alain was even redder with anger. His blondmustache bristled.

  _As much as Paris goes unnoticed in the midst of the Ile de France_,Simon thought with a smile.

  Now that his armor was off and an hour or more had passed, Simon feltmore at ease and was inclined to accept the situation. After all, if hecould not get into the doge's palace, he might reasonably hope thatneither could anyone who would want to harm the Tartars.

  "It is wealth and ships that make this city great, Alain, not its size."

  "That is all these Venetians care about--money." Like any proper knight,Alain despised money and those who loved it. In the course of learningto manage his estate, Simon had acquired more respect for money.

  "Even Paris has no beauty to rival this," said Simon, feeling a shadedisloyal even as he said so. "Look at those horses." He pointed to thefacade above the central doorway of the cathedral of San Marco, wherefour gilded bronze horses pranced, so proud and energetic as to seemalmost in motion.

  Alain whistled in appreciation. "What wizard wrought them, I wonder."

  Simon, who had been asking questions in the week they had been there,said, "They come from Constantinople. About sixty years ago theVenetians paid an army of French crusaders--our forefathers--to turnaside from the Holy Land and conquer Constantinople instead. TheVenetians took those horses and set them here to proclaim theirtriumph."

  "Diverting a crusade is surely a great sin," said Alain. "And theft istheft. But none of my forefathers had anything to do with the foul deedyou tell of."

  "No, nor mine," said Simon. "The French knights who conqueredConstantinople were our forefathers only in a manner of speaking."

  _But my predecessor, Count Amalric de Gobignon, did fouler things byfar. As Alain well knows, though he is too good a friend to mentionit._

  "Still, the good taste of the Venetians is admirable," Simon said aloud,still gazing at the horses.

  "For all I know, this could be the richest city in the world," saidAlain, missing the point. "But what matter, Simon, if its riches arestolen goods?"

  "Venice is by no means the richest city in the world, Messire," someonebeside them said.

  Startled, Simon turned to see Friar Mathieu, who had fallen into stepwith them, his eyes warm and friendly. Simon wanted to throw his armsaround the old man and hug him.

  "There are cities in the Far East so big and so rich they make Venicelook like a fishing village," Friar Mathieu went on, his long whitebeard blowing gently in the breeze from the waterfront.

  "People love to tell wild stories about the East," said Alainskeptically. "I've heard of cities of solid gold, birds as big as anelephant, and so on and on."

  _But this man has been there!_ Simon wanted to shout. Much though heliked Alain, Simon was discovering in his friend a narrowness that madehim a frustrating traveling companion. With Alain here, the conversationwith Friar Mathieu would plod, and Simon wanted it to gallop.

  "Sire Alain," he said, "I fear our hired men-at-arms may get intotrouble drinking, fighting, and wenching unless someone keeps a sharpeye on them. Will you see to them, please?"

  De Pirenne held up a broad hand. "I will slap them down for you, if needbe, Monseigneur." Now that a third party was present, he addressed Simonformally.

  "Travel is said to open a man's mind," said Friar Mathieu when dePirenne was gone. "But some minds are like country chateaus. Letanything strange approach, and the doors and windows slam shut."

  He took Simon's arm and steered him over the flagstones of the piazzatoward the cathedral. The many-columned facade of pink, white, and greenmarble, sculptures, and mosaics filling the spaces between them tookSimon's breath away. There was an opulence to the five great domes thatseemed to Simon to speak of the storied wealth of the East. They were sodifferent from the pointed spires of the cathedrals newly built inFrance.

  "I am very grateful to you, Simon, for trying so hard to protect ustoday," Friar Mathieu said. "The doge's discourtesy to you was theworst kind of rudeness, the rudeness of one who thinks himself morerefined than all others."

  Simon felt better, but he wondered if the friar was speaking so only outof kindness to him.

  "It is good of you to reassure me," he said, "but the doge seems to beguarding the ambassadors well enough."

  "All show," said Friar Mathieu. "The Venetians are not alert enough. Thedoge has no idea that we are in any danger. Nor does he seem to care. Ibelieve he has not decided whether he has anything to gain from analliance between Christians and Tartars. After all, the Venetians tradequite happily with the Muslims these days."

  Simon was shocked. "Is that not a sin?"

  "Against God, perhaps, but not against profit. And the common heading onyour Venetian merchant's account book is 'For God and Profit.' YoungSeigneur de Gobignon, you do not know how happy I am to talk to aFrenchman again after so many years."

  "How long have you been among the Tartars, Friar Mathieu?"

  The old Franciscan sighed. "Long enough to learn the Eastern peoples'way of counting the years in twelve-year cycles. They give each year thename of a certain animal."

  "A strange system."

  "A sensible system. It is easier to remember beasts than numbers. Let mesee, this year, Anno Domini 1263, they call the Year of the Sheep, andwhen I first entered the camp of Hulagu Khan the Tartars told me it wasthe Year of the Dragon. From Dragon to Sheep there are"--he counted onhis fingers while muttering the names of beasts under his breath--"sevenanimals. So, seven years since our good King Louis sent me to bear hismessages to the Tartars."

  "Then you went in 1256?"

  "Anno Domini 1256. That is right."

  Simon wanted very much to know more about life among the Tartars. But heand the old friar could have long talks on the road to Orvieto. For nowthere were more pressing questions.

  Just as he was about to speak, the friar pointed to the gateway betweenthe basilica and the doge's palace. "There go the Armenians."

  Simon saw six of the swarthy men crossing the piazza in a line.Short-statured though they were, there was a swagger in the way theywalked. They had doffed their leather armor and wore tunics of whitesilk with billowing red trousers over short black boots. Their tunicswere cinched at the waist with black leather belts, and in each belt wasthrust a curving saber in a jeweled scabbard. Their bows were slungacross their backs, along with black leather quivers.

  "Four of them stayed behind to guard the Tartars," Friar Mathieu said.

  Simon had been wondering just how his knights and archers would sharewith the Armenian guards the responsibility of protecting the Tartars. />
  "Why did the ambassadors bring Armenians, and not their own Tartarwarriors?" he asked Friar Mathieu.

  "Because the Armenians are Christians and are more like Europeans thanthemselves. The Armenians are allies, not subjects of the Tartars. Theseten who travel with us are great men among the Armenian people. One ofthem, Hethum, is in line to be King of Armenia some day. One feelssafer, traveling with such men."

  Simon watched the half-dozen Armenians disappear down a narrow sidestreet leading off the piazza. He felt a twinge of worry, seeing thatthey were heading toward the street in which his own men were quartered.He wanted to follow after the men from the East, but he did not want tointerrupt his conversation with Friar Mathieu. Feeling pulled in twodirections, he held himself to the friar's slow, thoughtful pace as theyapproached the cathedral.

  "Even some Tartars are Christians, I have heard," Simon said.

  "There are many religions among the Tartars." They had reached the frontof San Marco, and Friar Mathieu, still holding Simon's arm, wheeled themaround and started them walking back toward the doge's palace. "HulaguKhan's wife, the Khatun, is a Christian, although he is a pagan. Butwhat all Tartars really worship is strength. In their own language theycall themselves 'Mongols,' which means strong." Simon looked at thefriar and saw a faraway, awe-struck look in those old eyes. "One wonderswhy God created them. To punish us for our sins? Or to rule the worldand to bring order to all mankind?"

  "Rule the world?" said Simon. He thought about the two slit-eyed men insilk robes he had seen disembarking from the galley a few hours before.He remembered the look the older Tartar had given him, so unfeeling, asif looking down upon him from a vast distance.

  "They think it is their destiny to rule the world," said Friar Mathieu."And it is not a foolish dream. They have already conquered much of it.You might sneer at me as your skeptical knight did, Monseigneur, if Itold you how vast the Tartar empire is. Take France, England, and theHoly Roman Empire together, and they would be swallowed up in the landsruled by the Tartars."

  "Please call me Simon, Father, if you will. It embarrasses me to beaddressed as monseigneur by one such as you."

  Friar Mathieu patted Simon's hand. "Very well, Simon. That is kindlyspoken. It will be good for us to be friends, because we have a verydifficult and doubtful mission."

  "Why doubtful?"

  "We cannot be sure we are doing the right thing. These two men, John andPhilip, command great armies in the Tartar empire. Watch them, Simon.Notice how they observe fortifications and weapons. The same monks whomade Christians of them also taught them how to write. Many times atday's end in Syria and on Cyprus I have seen them talking together,making notes, drawing maps. Whether they form this alliance or not, theywill have much useful knowledge to bring back to their khan."

  _Then might it not be better for all of us if I fail to protect theTartars, and some enemy of Christendom succeeds in killing them?_

  Simon felt an aching tightness in his forehead. He desperately wantedthe alliance to succeed, and thereby show the nobility of France thatneither he nor his family any longer deserved their scorn. If thealliance failed, he failed, and the house of Gobignon would sink deeperinto dishonor.

  Let others worry, he decided, about whether it was right or wrong toprotect the Tartars.

  "Monseigneur!"

  There was urgency in the voice that hailed Simon from across the square,and a feeling of dread came over him. He turned to see his equerry,Thierry d'Hauteville, his wavy black hair uncovered, running across thepiazza.

  "They are fighting, Monseigneur!" Thierry panted. "Our Venetian archersand those men from Tartary. You'd best come at once."

  "Jesus, save us!" Simon heard Friar Mathieu whisper beside him.

  Staring into Thierry's anxious eyes, Simon felt himself getting angry.Six knights he had brought with him. Any knight worthy of his spursshould be able to stop any pack of commoners from fighting. And if theycould not, he thought with a sudden shift from anger to anxiety, whatmore could he do?

  There was no time to think. "Father, will you come, please?" he said toMathieu, and without waiting for a reply struck Thierry on the shoulderand began to run with him.

  "I follow, as quickly as I can, my son," he heard from behind him.

  "Could you not stop them?" he demanded of Thierry as they headed down anarrow cobblestoned street at a dead run.

  Dread made his legs heavy. De Puys, a veteran of the last crusade, dePirenne, a strong and well-trained knight--_they_ had sent for _him_.For Simon de Gobignon, twenty years of age, who had never in his lifebeen in a battle.

  Breath of God, what did they expect of him?

  "There was nothing we could do without killing the Tartars' bodyguard,"said Thierry. "You will see how it is when you get there."

  The inn was a stone building with houses on either side. The lower halfof the divided door was shut, but the upper half was open, and Simonheard shouts from within. Thierry, ahead of him, yanked the door openfor him.

  It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the large room.Shadowy figures jostled him as he pushed his way through. A little lightcame from the grilled windows and from a single huge yellow candleburning in a candlestick on a table. The room reeked of sweaty bodiesand old wine.

  "Make way for Monseigneur le Comte!" Thierry called uselessly as theVenetian mercenaries jabbered angrily in Italian.

  Simon pushed his way into the corner of the room lit by the candle andfound himself facing a scowling, dark-skinned man pointing a gleamingsword at him. Five of the Armenians, sabers out, had formed a protectivering.

  Within the ring, the sixth Armenian had a man bent forward over a table.The man's arms flailed feebly and his eyes bulged. Even in the poorlight Simon could see that his face, turned on its side toward him, waspurple. The Armenian was holding his bow behind the man's neck and wasturning it slowly. Now Simon saw the string cutting into the neck.

  It hurt Simon to look at what was happening. He felt his own breath cutoff, his heart pounding as if he were laboring for air. He wanted toturn away and knew he could not. He must somehow stop this before thatVenetian died.

  "Blood of God!" he whispered. He recognized the darkened, distortedface.

  Sordello.

  All around Simon the Venetians were edging closer to the Armenians,their daggers gleaming in the candlelight. But none of the foot soldierswanted to be the first to brave those sabers.

  That meant, Simon thought, heart pounding, that he would have to facethem.

  _Where the devil are my knights?_

  Looking to the right and left Simon saw Alain, Henri de Puys, and thefour others, swords out but--like himself--unarmored, standingirresolutely between the Venetians and the Armenians. Against one wallhe saw a huddle of women, their bare bosoms gleaming in the dim light.Standing protectively in front of the women was a man Simon recognizedas the innkeeper. For the price Simon was paying, why could not this mankeep order in his own house?

  "Aha, now we have the stinking figlii di cagne!" a man behind Simoncried. Simon turned and saw a crossbow leveled at shoulder height. Hehad ordered that the Venetians' weapons be kept under lock and key.Evidently someone had broken them out. Once the rest of the Venetiansarmed themselves with their bows, the Armenians would be slaughtered.

  Simon's body grew hot with anger. He would like to kill the fool whohelped the Venetians to their arms.

  But the Armenians had their bows, too, and one by one they started tounsling them. Simon heard the ominous squeaking as the Venetians woundback their crossbow strings. The Armenians would never be able to gettheir arrows nocked and their bows drawn before the crossbow bolts beganto fly.

  Simon's actions followed instantly on his thoughts. "Cessi!" he shouted,hoping the Venetians would understand him.

  Now all eyes were turned toward him. The muscles of his belly tightenedas he cast about in his mind for the right thing to do.

  The hands of the Venetians hesitated on their crossbows as theyrecognize
d their master.

  "De Pirenne, de Puys, the rest of you. Make our men put down theircrossbows."

  But just as Simon spoke, the Armenian strangling Sordello gave anotherturn to his bow, and the old bravo gagged and gasped.

  Simon realized that if he drew his scimitar, the room would be a charnelhouse in moments. He approached the Armenian nearest him, spreading hishands to show their emptiness. He prayed that the man, whose bow andarrow was aimed at his chest, would not see how those outstretched handswere trembling.

  In his strongest voice he said, "Hold your arrow!" hoping the man wouldunderstand his tone. As he spoke, he firmly grasped the arrow near itshead and pushed it aside. His heart thudded, and he could almost feelthat steel tip stabbing into his chest. And how bare was his back to thecrossbow quarrels!

  The Armenian took a step to the side and let Simon pass. Simon let out adeep breath of relief. As he stepped forward, the soles of his bootsslid a little. The floor, he realized, must be slippery with spilledwine.

  Now he was facing the man who was murdering Sordello. A vagrant thoughtstruck Simon: _I do not like Sordello. I would not mind if the Armeniankilled him. Why risk my life for him?_

  _Because a good seigneur is loyal to his men_, the answer came at once.

  He spoke commandingly but softly. "Stop. This is my man and you must notkill him. Let him go." He put his hand firmly on the forearm of theArmenian, who was a good deal shorter than he was. The man's dark browsdrew together in a puzzled frown. He was studying Simon's face. Simoncould feel a faint tremor in the muscles under his hand.

  Any man would be frightened at a moment like this, no matter how brave,how hardened, Simon thought. But he saw that the Armenian's face wasunlined, his eyes clear. His black mustache was small and fine.

  _He must be about my age. Maybe even younger._

  Simon felt a warmth toward the young Armenian, and hoped he could winhim over. But how could such a pleasant-looking fellow bring himself tostrangle a man with a bowstring? Perhaps Sordello had done somethingtruly evil.

  "Come now," Simon said, giving the young man's arm a gentle shake. "Dolet him go." He essayed a smile, hoping it would look friendly.

  The Armenian let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Then he releasedhis grip on the bow. He slapped it with one hand to make it twirl. Simonheard a faint choking sound from Sordello, and then the Italian slid tothe stone floor.

  A woman, her henna-dyed hair gleaming red-gold in the candlelight,rushed to the young Armenian and held his arm, talking soothingly inItalian. He stiffened at first, then smiled at her.

  "Thank you," said Simon to the Armenian, shaky with relief.

  He smiled and patted the dark man's free arm, feeling foolish about hissimple words of gratitude. If only Friar Mathieu would get here so thathe could talk to these men from the East.

  A cool feeling of relief bathed Simon. So far all had gone amazinglywell. But, he reminded himself, this was not over yet. He must continueto think quickly.

  "De Puys, clear the Venetians out of here. Assemble them outside. Thenmarch them away from this street altogether. And collect their crossbowsand get them locked up again. You should never have let them get atthose weapons. De Pirenne, you stay here and tell me what happened."

  "Well, this is how it was, Monseigneur," said Alain, looking abashed."Our men were drinking quietly, and this redheaded woman was sittingwith Sordello. Then these men from Tartary came in. They made notrouble, just sat down in their own corner. But the woman, she took afancy to that man you saw trying to kill Sordello. She served him wineand sat down with him. Sordello went over and tried to get her back.There were words. They didn't understand each other, but the meaning wasclear. Sordello went for the other with a knife. And then the other man_kicked_ it out of his hand--rather a surprise, that was--to Sordello,too, I think. And the next thing I know he was strangling Sordello andhis companions would not let anyone stop it. Sordello had the key to thestoreroom where the crossbows were kept. After the Armenian seized him,he threw it to one of the Venetians."

  A typical muddle, Simon thought, like most of the cases brought to himfor justice since he had become Seigneur of Gobignon. He felt disgustedwith all these fools. No saying who was at fault. Most likely the damnedwoman. Thank the Virgin he did not have to fix blame, just put a stop tothe fighting.

  Sordello, who had been lying curled up on the floor, suddenly lashed outwith a booted foot.

  The woman screamed. As Simon stared, the young Armenian fell heavily tothe wine-wet floor. Sordello sprang upon him, and a dagger flashed. Hewas striking at the Armenian's chest.

  Simon had no time to feel the panic that flooded through him. He grabbedfor Sordello's arm, too late to stop the dagger but pulling it back sothat it drove upward through the muscles of the chest instead ofplunging deep. The Armenian bellowed in pain. With all his strength,Simon yanked Sordello off the Armenian and threw him backward. DePirenne caught him and held him.

  Shouting in their own language and brandishing their swords, the otherArmenians rushed at Sordello.

  A familiar voice cried out a sentence in a strange tongue. Friar Mathieurushed into the circle of candlelight, his white beard flying, his armsupraised. At his sudden appearance the Armenians, who were ready to makemincemeat of Sordello--and perhaps de Pirenne with him--hesitated.

  _Oh, thank God!_ The weight of struggling to control this dreadfulsituation was no longer Simon's alone to bear.

  Friar Mathieu spoke several sentences to the Armenians. Simon could nottell from his tone whether he was scolding them or trying to placatethem. There were in the room five angry men who looked to be formidablefighters, armed with swords and bows and arrows. And, Simon realized, hehad just sent away all but one of his knights and all of hiscrossbowmen.

  Simon cursed himself for letting Sordello wound the young man.

  _Alain said Sordello dropped a dagger. Why did I not think to look forit?_

  He felt himself growing hot and cold as he realized this incident mightwreck everything--for Christendom, for Louis, and for the honor of theHouse of Gobignon.

  Now Friar Mathieu fell to his knees beside the young Armenian, whosewhite tunic was splashed deep scarlet with blood. He spoke comfortingwords to him and then turned an agonized face to Simon.

  "This is Prince Hethum," said the friar. "The Tartars will be furiouswhen they learn what has happened. This may destroy any chance of analliance. At the very least, they will demand satisfaction."

  _I am to protect these emissaries, and one of my own men has stabbed aprince of Armenia._

  Despair was an ache in Simon's chest.

  "What sort of satisfaction?"

  "I fear they will require that man's life," said Friar Mathieu sadly.

  "By God's beard, I have done no wrong!" Sordello rasped. His voice was acroak.

  "Be silent!" Simon snapped, his rage against himself turning to fury atSordello. "You are a fool, but being a fool will not save you."

  "Your Signory!" Sordello cried. "How could I let him take the woman fromme? My honor--"

  "_Your_ honor!" Simon raged. "What is your wandering blackguard's honorcompared to the honor of France? The woman chose him over you. Look ather."

  Sordello glared at Simon, but was silent. The red-haired woman crouchedover the fallen Prince Hethum, crooning softly in Italian.

  _And yet, Uncle Charles would not want me to sacrifice Sordello. And theArmenian did try to kill him. My knights and men-at-arms will lose allrespect for me if I let the Tartars have their way with Sordello._

  _But if he goes unpunished, if the Armenian prince goes unrevenged,there will be no alliance at all._

  And it would be his fault. The little honor that was left to the Houseof Gobignon would be lost.

  A wave of anger at himself swept over him. Had he dedicated himself tothe alliance only so that he might free himself from the agony of hisguilty secret and his house from dishonor? He thought of King Louis andhow pure was his desire to win back for Christen
dom the places whereChrist had lived. How impure were Simon's own motives!

  As long as he put his own needs first, he would continue to deserve theburdens of guilt and shame.