The Saracen: Land of the Infidel by Robert Shea (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

you would get a thousand reports, each very different. Also, you must keep in mind that the Tartars are changing so rapidly that what was true of them a year ago may no longer be so today.[167]

"Italy, France, England, the Holy Roman Empire—all have existed for hundreds of years. The Church has carried on Christ's work for over a thousand years. This city of Orvieto is even older. But a mere hundred years ago the Tartars were tribes of herdsmen, even simpler than the Hebrews of Moses' day. Now they rule the largest empire the world has ever seen."

How could such a thing happen, Simon wondered. It seemed almost miraculous. The Tartars must have had the help of God—or the devil.

"Imagine a baby with the size and strength of a giant," Mathieu said with a smile. "That is what we are dealing with here. Such a gigantic infant might, in a moment of ungoverned anger, kill thousands of people, destroy all manner of precious objects, even sweep away whole cities. But an infant learns rapidly, and so it is with the Tartars. The new emperor, or khakhan as they call him, Kublai, reads and writes and converses in many languages. And he does not destroy cities, he builds them. He is the brother of Hulagu, who sent the ambassadors here."

Simon began to feel relieved. Friar Mathieu's calm words washed over him, easing his fear that he was doing wrong by supporting the Tartar alliance.

Fra Tomasso raised a pudgy finger. "If the Tartars are so powerful and are gaining in knowledge, does this not make them even more of a danger to Christendom?"

"It could," said the old Franciscan. "Let me say, Fra Tomasso—and Holy Father"—with a bow to the pope—"I can tell you only what I have seen, and then with God's help you must judge what is best for Christendom."

Simon glanced over at the formidable David of Trebizond, who up to now had been the most expert witness on the Tartars. He stood stiffly, staring at d'Alcon.

There is a man sore vexed.

And de Verceuil, who should have been pleased at having this help, looked just as vexed.

Friar Mathieu outshines the cardinal, and he is furious.

"We have been told that the Tartars plan to conquer the whole world," said d'Aquino.

"For a time they thought they could," Friar Mathieu nodded. "But the world surprised them by going on and on, and now their empire is so huge they cannot hold it together. And they are such innocents, the nations they conquer are destroying them. They die[168] in great numbers of the diseases of cities. In their prairie homeland they were not familiar with the strong wine drunk by farmers and city folk, and now many of their leaders die untimely deaths of drink. Also, as they grow wealthier and more powerful, they fight over the spoils they have taken. When they invaded Europe they were still united, and they were able to throw all their strength into that war. But now they have broken into four almost independent nations. So divided and extended, they are much less of a danger to Christendom."

How could they hold their empire together, thought Simon, when they had been nothing but ignorant herdsmen a generation ago? Mathieu's discourse made sense.

"So," said Fra Tomasso, "we are no longer dealing with a giant, but with a creature closer to our own size."

"Yes," said Mathieu, "and the proof is that only a few years ago, for the first time anywhere in the world, the Tartars lost a great battle. They were defeated by the Mamelukes of Egypt at a place called the Well of Goliath in Syria. If Hulagu's army had won that battle, the Tartars would be in Cairo, and they might be demanding our submission instead of offering us an alliance."

"But you think it is safe for us to ally ourselves with them now?"

Friar Mathieu looked sad and earnest. "If we and the Tartars make war on the Mamelukes separately, we will be defeated separately. And then, as sure as winter follows summer, the Mamelukes will take the few cities and castles and bits of land our crusaders still hold in Outremer, and all those generations of blood spilled for God and the Holy Sepulchre will have been in vain."

Now Simon's relief was total. He felt like singing for joy. He was on the right side after all.

Friar Mathieu stopped speaking and there was silence in the hall. Gradually the prelates began talking. But there were no shrill outbursts from those who opposed the alliance. The voices of all were subdued, respectful.

The pope beckoned Friar Mathieu to his chair and spoke a few words to him, holding him by the arm. The old friar slowly lowered himself to his knees, bent and kissed Urban's ring.

Fra Tomasso called for silence, and Urban rose and blessed the assembly. Simon fell to his knees and crossed himself, thinking, If I stay here very long, I shall get enough of these papal blessings to absolve me from punishment for a lifetime of sin.

Accompanied by d'Aquino and a phalanx of priests, the Holy[169] Father left the hall by the side door. The arguments in the hall grew louder.

As he rose to his feet, Simon saw de Verceuil hurrying toward the front door, his small mouth tight with anger. A protective impulse made Simon look about for Friar Mathieu.

There he was, at the center of a small group of friars. Simon started toward him.

A figure blocked his way.

Even though he touched nothing palpable, he stopped as suddenly as if he had run into a wall. And the face he was looking into was hard as granite, eyes alight with the icy glow of diamonds. And yet it was not a cold face. There was something burning deep inside there, a fire this man kept hidden most of the time. That fire, Simon felt, could destroy anything in its path if allowed to blaze forth.

David of Trebizond was silent, but as clearly as if he had spoken, Simon heard a voice say, I know you, and you are my enemy. Beware. Simon realized that David had intended to meet him like this, intended Simon to seek the unspoken threat in his eyes.

He is trying to frighten me, Simon thought, and was angered. He held his arm still, but he knew that if his sword had been buckled at his side, nothing could have stopped him from reaching for it.

Simon looked the broad-shouldered man up and down, taking his measure. David, half a head shorter than Simon, stood relaxed but imposing, his hands hanging at his sides. That a man could appear at once so composed and so challenging was unique.

This man is no trader. It is not just an accident that he has come here to speak against the alliance.

Who and what is he—really?

Simon drew in a deep breath and said in gruff Italian, "Let me pass, Messere."

Slowly, almost insolently, David drew aside. "Forgive me, Your Signory. I was studying your face." He spoke Italian with a strange accent. "I thought I might have seen you a long time ago. But that is not possible, because a long time ago you would have been a child."

What does that mean? Is he trying to remind me that I am younger than he is?

"I am sure we have never met, Messere," Simon said coldly.

"Quite right, Your Signory," said David. "But no doubt we will meet again."[170]

Simon walked past the man from Trebizond. His back felt terribly exposed, and he held his shoulders rigidly. He felt the enmity from behind him as sharp as a dagger's point.

XV

Simon guided the black palfrey carefully down the road into the wooded valley west of Orvieto. The path, like the streets of the city, was carved from rock and slippery.

When he needed to think, Simon liked to get out of doors, beyond any walls, and to feel a good horse moving under him. It was now a week since the day of the papal council, and its inconclusive outcome troubled him sorely. The pope had repeatedly postponed his audience with the Tartar ambassadors, pleading a sudden excess of phlegm. The Tartars were growing restless, pacing the courtyard of the Palazzo Monaldeschi, muttering to each other angrily and refusing to speak to anyone else.

The longer the negotiations were delayed, the greater the chance they would fail. The Tartars might even die. Friar Mathieu had said that the Tartars, coming from a land so distant and so different, were especially vulnerable to the diseases of Europe.

Charging de Pirenne and de Puys to keep careful watch over the two emissaries, Simon had ridden out into the hills to think what he might do to help his cause along.

But it is not my place to try to speed things up. My task is to guard the ambassadors, nothing more. If I do only that, I have done my duty.

But, as he rode out into the valley under the deep shade of huge old olive trees, he heard in his mind King Louis's voice.

And you, too, Simon, must do whatever you can, seize any opportunity, to further the cause of the alliance.

King Louis lay prostrate on the floor of the Sainte Chapelle, his face buried in his hands. Simon, impatient to speak to Louis about[171] his mission to Italy, knelt on the stone a few paces away from the king's long, black-draped form. The two of them were the entire congregation this morning, far outnumbered by the twelve canons and fourteen chaplains chanting the royal mass.

Unable to keep his mind on the mass, Simon kept gazing up at the stained glass windows. Since the age of eight, when he had become part of the king's household, he had spent hundreds of mornings here in the chapel attached to the royal palace, but the building still amazed him. The walls seemed to be all glass, filled with light, glowing with colors bright as precious stones. What held the chapel up? Pierre de Montreuil, the king's master builder, had patiently explained the principles of the new architecture to Simon, but though Simon understood the logic of it, the Sainte Chapelle, most beautiful of the twenty-three churches of the Île de la Cité, still looked miraculous to him.

The mass ended and the celebrants proceeded down the nave of the chapel two by two, dividing when they came to King Louis as the Seine divides to flow around the Cité, each canon and chaplain bowing as he passed the prone figure.

When they were all gone, King Louis slowly began to push himself to his feet. Simon hurried to help him, gripping his right arm with both hands. The king's arm was thin, but Simon felt muscles like hard ropes moving under his hands. Though almost fifty, the king still, Simon knew, practiced with his huge two-handed sword in his garden. Age had not weakened him, though a mysterious lifelong ailment sometimes forced him to take to his bed.

Louis looked pained. "This is not one of my good days for walking. Let me lean on you."

Simon was grateful for the chance to help King Louis. The vest of coarse horsehair that Louis wore next to his body to torment his flesh—as penance for what faults, Simon could not imagine—creaked as he straightened up. He put his arm over Simon's shoulder, and Simon passed an arm around his narrow waist. He looked down at Simon with round, sad eyes. His nose was large, but blade-thin, his cheeks sunken in.

"Let us visit the Crown of Thorns," he said, pointing to the front of the chapel, the apse.

Louis was leaning all his weight on Simon as they walked slowly up to the wooden gallery behind the altar where the Crown of Thorns reposed. Even so, the king felt light. How could a man be at once so strong and so fragile, Simon wondered.[172]

There was barely room on the circular wooden stairway for them to climb side by side. As they stood before the sandalwood chest containing the reliquary, Louis took his arm from Simon's shoulders. He took two keys from the purse at his plain black belt and used one to open the doors of the chest. Inner doors of gold set with jewels blazed in the light from the stained glass windows.

Louis opened the second set of doors with the other key and, with Simon's help, knelt. Simon saw within the chest, lined with white satin, a gold reliquary that contained the Crown of Thorns. It was shaped like a king's crown and set with pearls and rubies and stood on a gold stem and base, like a chalice. Simon was icy-cold with awe, almost terror, at the sight of it. To think that what lay within this gold case had been worn by Jesus Christ Himself, twelve centuries