II
Messer Lorenzo Celino of Sicily strode into the cell. He held in his hands a large round slice of bread heaped with steaming slivers of meat that gave off an unfamiliar but succulent smell.
Daoud slowly climbed to his feet. The hound Scipio, trailing Celino, watched him, standing in the doorway, as if unwilling to enter the vile-smelling chamber.
Daoud measured Celino. The top of the Sicilian's head would come to Daoud's chin, but the shoulders under his violet tunic were broad and straight, and he moved with menacing grace. Daoud judged that, though Celino must be close to fifty, he would be quick and deadly with hands and feet, and a good swordsman as well.
"God's beard, man, I didn't mean to keep you sitting in this room all day without food or drink," Celino said. "The damned farmers and traders kept coming and coming. But you cannot eat in this stinking place. Come out."
Daoud emerged into the next room, and Lorenzo motioned him to sit at the guards' table. Even though Daoud felt deep relief at being out of the cell, he sensed he was in greater danger than before. His mouth went dry and the palms of his hands turned cold as his eyes scanned the room for weapons or an escape route.
Lorenzo set the trencher and its burden of meat down before Daoud.
"Just butchered. Here, eat in good health. And here is a beaker of our good red wine of Monte Vultura." Daoud heard a false note in Celino's present heartiness and liked it even less than his earlier gruff suspicion.
Wine. An abomination forbidden by the Prophet. As Celino set a pitcher and two cups down on the table, Daoud recalled the nights he had spent with Sheikh Saadi learning to master wine and other drugs.
God prohibits the drinking of wine and the eating of unclean foods, not for His good, for nothing can harm Him, but for our good. Therefore, when a man goes among the infidel as a spy, God permits him to eat and drink the forbidden things lest he be discovered and put to death. You must learn to separate your mind from your body so that what harms your body will not affect your mind.
Daoud raised the cup, wondering if he would have as much power over wine drunk in the land of the infidel as he did when he drank it with his teacher. He sipped. The red liquid was thick and bitter and burned his mouth, but he made himself smile, sigh appreciatively, and sip again. He kept God at the center of his thoughts.
Celino was watching him closely. Raising his cup in salute, he also drank.
"Good, good. Now eat. Fresh roasted. Pork."
Daoud's fingers, poised over the meat, stopped short. Already made ill by hunger, by the vile odor of the room in which he had been confined, and by the wine that made his stomach churn, he felt himself on the point of vomiting. For nearly twenty years the prohibition against eating the flesh of pigs had been impressed upon him until the very thought of pork made him sick. He knew he should have prepared himself by eating it before he left El Kahira, but he had never found time for that. So now, a prisoner of the enemy, he faced for the first time the test of pork.
Celino was watching him with a half smile.
He would not test me with wine and pig's meat unless he suspected I am a Muslim.
Daoud's fingers grasped a slice of the hot meat. He tore it in half, using both his clean right hand and his unclean left as a non-Muslim would.
He stuffed a slice of pork into his mouth. It had smelled good until he found out what it was. Now it seemed slimy and tasteless. His stomach clenched, but he held himself rigid, expressionless. He started to chew, and found that his mouth was dry. His life might depend on his giving a convincing imitation of pleasure. He chewed the meat to fragments and, as though savoring it, swallowed the abomination crumb by crumb.
He realized he was still holding the other scrap of pork in his left hand. To give himself a respite, he tossed it to the flagstone floor before Lorenzo's hound.
Unclean to the unclean, he thought.
Scipio looked at Daoud with an almost human look of surprise, then bent to devour the meat.
"Friday, Scipio," said Celino sharply. "You are forbidden meat."
The dog looked sadly up at Celino, licked its chops, and sat back on its haunches, leaving the meat untouched. In spite of his predicament, Daoud laughed.
"You see?" said Celino. "Even a dog can learn to obey the commandments."
Celino gestured to the dog. "All right, Scipio, the bishop of Palermo gives you a dispensation."
The dog stood and struck at the meat with his long muzzle. It vanished to the accompaniment of loud gulping sounds.
"He likes it better than you do," Celino said. "You do not act very hungry for a man who has not eaten all day. Come on, man, fill your belly."
Realizing that the pork would taste worse as it cooled, Daoud braced himself and stuffed piece after piece into his mouth, chewing and swallowing as rapidly as he could.
"And," said Celino, watching him with narrowed eyes, "a dog can be trained to break the commandments when permitted."
From time to time Daoud threw a scrap to Scipio, grateful for the hound's help. But as he ate, Daoud noticed that the meat began to taste better to him, and the juices of his mouth began to flow. The familiar feeling of sorrow came over him, and he looked around at the white walls and ceiling, the wooden beams overhead painted blue. In his mind's eye he saw in their place yellow stone walls and a vaulted ceiling, and remembered that he had last tasted the flesh of pig at table with his father and mother.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sat back. "Thank you. I feel better now."
Celino stood up, took the stale disk of bread, and dropped it to the floor. Scipio picked it up in his mouth.
"Then have the goodness to accompany me to the Hall of Mars, Messer David," he said, and turned.
He shows me that he is not afraid to turn his back, Daoud thought, picking up his pack and following Celino. The Hall of Mars, he remembered, was an indoor exercise hall for Manfred's troops. They climbed stairs and walked through rooms in which Muslim soldiers were cleaning and polishing helmets, coats of mail, and weapons. In one room, men were painting shields. All the shields were yellow and bore the black two-headed eagle of the Hohenstaufens.
Daoud followed Lorenzo into a very large, bare room with a floor of polished hardwood. Ropes and chains hung from the walls and the beamed ceiling. Tall windows cut high up in smooth walls—too high to jump to—let in afternoon sunlight and fresh air that did not quite dispel a heavy odor of sweat. Opposite the doorway through which they passed was another and larger entrance, with double doors. The room was not square; the walls were of differing lengths and set at angles. Daoud recalled the octagonal shape of Castello Lucera's central tower.
He reviewed the plan of the castle he had committed to memory in El Kahira. He was sure that behind the double doors was the great royal audience hall. The wide doorway would allow troops assembled in the Hall of Mars to march into the audience chamber for a review.
Daoud noticed a group of Muslim guards lounging in one corner. At Lorenzo's entrance they touched their hands to their turbans in salute. Lorenzo responded with the same gesture. Scipio carried the trencher in his mouth to a corner of the room, where he lay down and began pushing the hard bread around with his forepaws and, working at it with his formidable teeth, making loud crunching noises.
Celino led Daoud to the center of the room. He turned suddenly on Daoud.
"Now, spy, you will tell me exactly who you are and exactly where you come from," he said rapidly. "You will tell me the truth, or you will die here and now."
Daoud came within a breath of answering, then realized Lorenzo had spoken in Arabic. Relieved laughter bubbled up toward his throat—he had not been caught. He choked it down and assumed a puzzled expression.
"I do not understand," Daoud said in Italian. "What tongue are you speaking, Messer Lorenzo?"
"Liar," said Lorenzo, still in Arabic, his eyes narrowing.
"I understand Italian, Greek, and, of course, the speech of Scythia," said Daoud. "If you would question me, speak in one of those tongues." Daoud sensed that the Sicilian's sudden shifts of mood were calculated. While his mouth uttered accusations, Celino's eyes watched him with a calm intelligence that reminded Daoud of an emir examining a fine-looking horse for hidden flaws.
Daoud saw, at the edge of his vision, that the guards who had been lounging in the corner of the hall were now in motion. He glanced quickly left and right. Three men, about fifty paces away, were coming at him, curved swords drawn. The dog, Scipio, had abandoned the trencher and risen to his feet, and he, too, was advancing on Daoud, fangs bared.
Lorenzo stepped away from Daoud, still pointing at him.
"Spegni! Kill!"
Tension crackled across Daoud's stomach like a lash. Three swords, and a dog that looked capable of killing a man. None of the weapons he had hidden on him would do for this. He slung his pack toward the wall behind him, leaving both hands free.
He half turned, to keep Lorenzo in sight while watching the advancing men. The Sicilian had a long dagger in a scabbard hung by his right side, but he did not draw it.
Facing the three swords, Daoud had not yet raised his hands. But his legs tensed. He bent at the knees, shifted his weight to the balls of his feet.
He whirled and sprang at Lorenzo. The Sicilian jumped backward, and Daoud could hear behind him the pounding of booted feet on the wooden floor. The dog barked furiously.
Daoud grappled with Lorenzo. The Sicilian grabbed his forearms, trying to hold him at a distance, and his strength was almost a match for Daoud's. But Daoud twisted his arms free, drove in, and caught Celino's neck in the bend of his left arm. He swung him around so that the Sicilian's body was between himself and the three attacking soldiers. While Lorenzo stumbled, Daoud plucked the man's dagger out of its scabbard. It had two sharp edges and came to a diamond-bright point.
Scipio leapt at him, but Daoud shifted Lorenzo between himself and the hound, and Scipio fell back. His enraged barking was deafening, like the roar of a lion. His fangs were a row of bone spear-points. He danced right and left, seeking a way to get past Lorenzo to Daoud.
The joy of battle, the weapon in his hand, made Daoud feel the power coursing through his arms. But that damned dog had to be stopped. His teeth were as dangerous to Daoud as the curving blades of the three Muslim soldiers. Those fangs could rip through his boots, tear the muscles of his legs, and cripple him. He would prefer death.
Releasing Lorenzo's neck, Daoud gripped Lorenzo's wrist and twisted, hard and fast. Biting his lip, Lorenzo resisted, but he had to turn and bend, or the pressure on his arm would break it. Daoud laid the edge of Lorenzo's dagger against his throat.
"Call off your dog or I cut your throat." Daoud glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was behind him.
"By all means cut my throat," Lorenzo flung back at him. "And Scipio will tear your throat out."
"If the dog jumps at me, I will gut him."
"The devil roast your balls," Lorenzo growled. "Scipio, sit!"
The hound stopped barking and stared at Lorenzo.
"Down, Scipio!" Lorenzo said. "He will not hurt me." To Daoud he said, "If you do hurt me, you will suffer such things that you will beg us to kill you."
Scipio reluctantly crouched, murder in his brown eyes and a steady, low growling issuing from his throat. The three Muslim guards were still moving forward, far more warily.
Daoud felt strong and able now to deal with these four men, but he could almost feel the weight of the overwhelming trap he was in. The thick walls. The thousands of soldiers. It was hopeless. He could fight on only until he died. And that was not what he had come here for at all.
Daoud stepped back toward the farther doorway, pulling Lorenzo with him. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one was behind him.
"For my part," said Daoud, "I will hurt you till you beg them to put down their swords. I will start by breaking your arm." He gave the twisted arm a vicious upward push till he could almost feel the agony of the tendons. Lorenzo grunted, and Scipio barked angrily. Most men, Daoud thought, would have screamed aloud at that.
"No matter what you do to me, it will not help you," said Lorenzo.
Three more turbaned Muslim soldiers joined those coming at Daoud. They spread out in a wide circle, some of them trying to slip around to his rear.
"Stand where you are, or I'll kill him," Daoud shouted. To show he meant it, he pressed the knife edge hard against Celino's throat and sliced with it just enough to draw blood.
"I hope you will enjoy the taste of your own intestines," Lorenzo said. He dug his boot heels into the wooden floor, trying to slow down Daoud's effort to drag him to the door. Daoud pushed up harder on his arm to make him move faster.
Daoud felt no fear of death, and he would not let them take him prisoner to torture him. He would die fighting. And go straight to paradise.
But how foolish all this was. A waste of his own life and the lives he would take with him. And many of those he would kill were Muslims, like himself.
"You must know that you will be the first to die here," he said. "And believe me I will take many of your men with me. I may even manage to kill your precious dog. I did not come here to fight with King Manfred's men. Why are you doing this?"
Celino, who had been struggling against Daoud, now relaxed and turned his head. "You are too dangerous to live."
"Dangerous to whom?"
"To me," said a deep voice behind Daoud.