The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 55

"I myself suspected that the sun might be stationary while the earth moves long before I learned that Aristotle might also believe so." Fra Toma.s.so waved a hand toward the window again. His cell was the top floor of one of the towers fortifying the Dominican chapter house, an anthill of constant, mysterious activity. D'Aquino's window overlooked the north side of Orvieto's wall. There was no covering on the window, and the shutters were open to let in the cool mountain air. Daoud gazed upon the rolling hills, bright green in the sunlight, beyond Orvieto's battlements. This was a lovely country, he thought. Back in Egypt the hills would be brown this time of year.

"Look how much light and heat we get from the sun," Fra Toma.s.so went on.

"Yet, the sun appears small--I can hide it with my thumb."

_Your thumb could hide four or five suns._

"Perhaps it _is_ small," Daoud said.

"If it is as big as it must be to produce such light and heat, it must be very far away--thousands of leagues--to appear so small. But if it is that far away, it must be bigger still, for its heat and light to travel such a distance. The bigger it is, the farther away it must be--the farther away it is, the bigger it must be. Do you follow? There must be a strict rule of proportion."

Daoud told himself to ignore this nonsense and concentrate on the important thing--that Fra Toma.s.so badly wanted a book by this pagan philosopher Aristotle. That book might be the means of winning Fra Toma.s.so. Not that he could be crudely bribed, but certainly such a present would favorably dispose him to what Daoud had to say.

And he saw another way to make the point he had come to make.

"It may be, Your Reverence, that the book you want has been lost forever. When I spoke of the destruction of Baghdad the other day, I should have mentioned that the Tartars burned there a library rivaled only by the great library of Alexandria in its prime."

His flesh turned cold. That was a mistake. In his zeal he had momentarily forgotten that it was Christians who had destroyed the library of Alexandria. As the story was often told in Egypt, when the Muslim warriors took Alexandria from the Christians, they found that most of what had once been the world's greatest collection of books had been used to fuel the fires that warmed the public baths.

But, to Daoud's relief, Fra Toma.s.so only shut his eyes and shook his head, his cheeks quivering gently like a bowl of frumenty. "G.o.d forgive the Tartars."

"G.o.d will certainly not forgive _us_, Fra Toma.s.so, if we help the Tartars to destroy Damascus and Cairo. Or Trebizond and Constantinople."

The Dominican opened his eyes wide. "Constantinople?"

"In the Far East they have taken greater cities and conquered much larger empires."

Fra Toma.s.so crossed himself. "But it is G.o.d's will, even as Augustine tells us, that cities be destroyed and empires rise and fall. The Tartars may be the builders of a Christian empire that embraces the whole world."

_G.o.d forbid it!_ Daoud was becoming exasperated with the fat Dominican's "perhapses" and "maybes." _Perhaps the earth moves and the sun stands still. Maybe the Tartars are G.o.d's means of making the whole world Christian._

He warned himself not to let his anger show. This might seem to be a pleasant conversation, but actually he was tiptoeing around the edge of a pit of quicksand.

Still, if this clever, restless mind could be recruited to work against the alliance, how persuasive it would be. Daoud had already noticed that most of the leaders of Christendom listened when d'Aquino spoke. But Daoud dared not argue against the belief that G.o.d decided the fate of nations. He recalled a teaching of his Sufi master, Sheikh Saadi. He framed it in his mind to offer to d'Aquino.

"Your Reverence, truly we must accept as the will of G.o.d that which has happened. But to think we can guess what G.o.d wills for the future is sinful pride. We can be guided only by the knowledge of right and wrong He has implanted in us."

D'Aquino let his folded hands rest on the great sphere of his belly. His blue eyes gazed off at a point somewhere behind Daoud, whose muscles tightened as he waited for the friar to speak. He watched through the open window as a flock of crows circled in the deep-blue sky. They chose a direction and dwindled to a cloud of black dots over the green hills.

Daoud realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out just as the last crow disappeared.

"That is well stated," said Fra Toma.s.so. "I can find no objection to that."

Elated, Daoud pressed on. "And it follows that if we think the Tartar destruction of civilization is wrong, we must fight against it." He hoped he did not sound too eager. D'Aquino would surely be suspicious if he saw how badly Daoud wanted his cooperation.

"I will have to consider that," said Fra Toma.s.so judiciously. "But perhaps we could teach the Tartars the value of civilization. If we made allies of them, we could make it a condition that they not destroy any more of the great cities of the Muslim world. Indeed, our missionaries will be among them. They can point out what should be saved."

Daoud's breathing quickened as rage rumbled up inside him. It sounded exactly as if Fra Toma.s.so meant that the Tartars could slaughter all the people of Islam as long as they left the libraries intact. Using the Has.h.i.+s.h.i.+yya technique called "the Face of Steel within the Mask of Clay," he walled off his anger.

He would not contradict Fra Toma.s.so's last idea. He would try instead to make the beginning of a bargain.

"Those libraries of Trebizond you asked me about," Daoud said. "I am sure there are many books in them that exist nowhere else in the world.

Perhaps even the book you mentioned, that rare book of Aristotle. Would you write down its name for me, Fra Toma.s.so? I will inquire about it in my next report to my trading partners."

The Dominican leaned forward until most of his belly disappeared below the horizon of his desk. In that position he was able to pull the desk closer and search it for a blank slip of parchment. He dipped his quill ceremoniously in his inkpot, wrote briefly, then carefully poured fine white sand from a jar to absorb the excess ink. Daoud rose to take the parchment from him.

_Now, if only such a book exists somewhere in the lands where Baibars's power runs. And if only the weather on the Middle Sea allows us to get the book here quickly. And if only it has the effect on Fra Toma.s.so that I want._

So many ifs. Far too many. The outcome of a battle would be easier to predict. For the thousandth time Daoud wished he were leading troops in the field rather than intriguing in the chambers of enemy leaders.

"I understand it will be possible to meet the two Tartars when the Contessa di Monaldeschi gives a reception in their honor next week,"

said Daoud. "Will Your Reverence be attending?"

Fra Toma.s.so nodded. "But I also intend to talk with them privately as I have with you." Daoud tensed inwardly as he heard that. "It will be interesting, though, to see how they comport themselves in a gathering,"

the Dominican went on. "Yes, I shall come to the contessa's. And you?"

"As Cardinal Ugolini's guest," said Daoud with modesty. "And what of the execution of the heretic who threatened the amba.s.sadors in the cathedral? Will Your Reverence witness that? I understand it should be a most edifying spectacle." He folded Fra Toma.s.so's bit of parchment and thrust it into the pouch at his belt.

Fra Toma.s.so shook his head. "The good of the community demands that we make an example of the poor creature. He refuses to admit his errors.

Still, I cannot stand to see a fellow human being suffer. I will not be there."

So, thought Daoud contemptuously, the fat Dominican was one of those who could justify the shedding of blood but could not stand to see it shed.

And in the same way, d'Aquino might decide to be for war or for peace and never see the consequences of his decision. Daoud might wish to lead troops in battle, but he reminded himself that it was in studios like this, where men of influence thought and read and argued, that the real war was being fought.

XX

The madman had a loud voice. Daoud could hear him long before he could see the victim and his torturers. The people around Daoud jostled and craned their necks toward the sound of the screams.

The heretic, in accordance with his sentence, had been dragged through every street in the city and tormented at every intersection, but most of Orvieto's citizens had been waiting in the Piazza San Giovenale to see his final agonies before the cathedral he had desecrated. The piazza was so packed with people it seemed not another person could squeeze in.

Daoud had positioned himself at the foot of the front steps of the cathedral. He faced a wooden platform, newly built in the center of the piazza, on four legs twice the height of a man. Above the platform rose a tall pole. The whole structure was of white wood, unseasoned and unpainted--which was only sensible, since it would shortly be destroyed.

Bundles of firewood were piled under it.

Daoud's arms were wedged so tightly to his side by the crowd of people standing about him that it was an effort for him to wipe his face with his sleeve. He had expected Italy to be cooler than Egypt now, in the middle of the Christian month of September, but the damp heat of summer lingered. Thick gray clouds hung low over the city. Sweat streamed from under Daoud's red velvet cap, and he wished he could wear a turban or a burnoose to keep his forehead cool and dry.

At the top of the cathedral steps, in a s.p.a.ce cleared by papal guards, stood six red-robed cardinals. Ugolini was among them. He had not wanted to witness the execution, but Daoud had persuaded him to go. His presence, like Daoud's, might counter the suspicion that those who opposed the alliance with the Tartars were connected with the disturbances against them.

Near Ugolini stood Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil, the Tartars' chief supporter in the Sacred College, in a scarlet robe trimmed with ermine, and a broad-brimmed red hat. He looked disdainfully down at another cardinal who Ugolini had pointed out to Daoud as Guy le Gros, also a Frenchman. Every so often de Verceuil would c.o.c.k an ear to the screams, which were coming closer, or he would glance that way with bright, eager eyes.

Behind the cardinals stood a man-at-arms holding a staff bearing the pope's standard, a gold and white banner blazoned with the crossed keys of Peter in red. Ugolini had learned from the pope's majordomo that His Holiness would not attend. Like Fra Toma.s.so, Urban had neither need nor desire to see this execution.

One who did have to witness the torture and death of the heretic stood with folded arms on the cathedral steps. He was stocky and much shorter than the two guards in yellow and blue, the city colors, who stood holding halberds on either side of him. His face was grim, and there were deep shadows around his eyes. A small, thin mustache adorned his upper lip. Daoud knew him to be Frescobaldo d'Ucello, podesta of Orvieto.

Daoud's eye moved on. There was the young hero, the man who had captured the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin. Count Simon de Gobignon stood a little apart from the churchmen and the podesta, speaking to no one. It seemed he had brought none of his Frankish henchmen with him. The black velvet cap he wore and his long dark-brown hair contrasted with the pallor of his thin face. His dress was rich but somber, his silk mantle a deep maroon, his tunic purple. His gloved left hand played nervously with the hilt of his sword, that very sword that had stricken the blade from the heretic's hand.