XXIX
This was a fearsome place, thought Daoud as he gazed around the underground chamber hewn out of the yellow tufa on which the building stood. Lit with torches, its vault was festooned with ropes and chains, one wall lined with whips, rods, and scourges hanging from hooks, pokers and branding irons heating in smoking braziers, a rack in one corner, a ring of wood and iron six feet in diameter suspended in the center of the room, on which a man could be spread-eagled. A veritable bazaar of torture instruments. Its door was of solid oak reinforced with criss-crossed strips of iron, designed to dash any hope of escape.
Daoud sat in a thronelike chair painted black—Tilia said it had once belonged to a pope—on a raised platform against a wall. If the damned chair had a few cushions in it, it might almost be comfortable. This place, Tilia had told him, was for patrons of hers who liked to torture—or be tortured.
It was perfect for his purpose. But could he himself be as perfect as the room? This was a hard and wily man he had to deal with tonight. It would be difficult to dominate him.
Beside Daoud, a preparation of wine, hashish, and the distilled juice of the Anatolian poppy simmered in a pot held on a metal tripod over a candle flame. He sniffed the faint steam that rose from the warm potion. He warned himself to do no more sniffing, or he would be unable to conduct the night's proceedings with a clear head. He glanced down at one broad arm of the throne, where a small brass bowl lay. In the dish rested a steel needle as long as a forefinger, its tip covered with a black paste.
A nervous anticipation tingled in the pit of his stomach, but he held himself very still.
Daoud heard Lorenzo's voice, and a moment later the oak-and-iron door swung open. A man stumbled through, his head covered with a black hood, his hands tied behind him, his ankles chained close together with hobble-gyves. Two of Tilia's mute black slaves held his arms. Behind him walked Lorenzo, a broad-bladed dagger held at waist level.
Daoud sat straighter in the throne, resting his hands on the arms. The door boomed shut, and at Lorenzo's command the slaves untied the prisoner's wrists and pulled the hood off his head.
Sordello stood before Daoud, blinking and staring angrily around him. Daoud watched, pleased, as the sight of the irons and chains and scourges bore in on Sordello and the anger on the bravo's face changed to alarm.
"Why have you done this to me? What the devil is this place?"
An appropriate question, Daoud thought. "You are in hell," he said.
Sordello squinted at Daoud. "And who are you supposed to be, Messer David, the Prince of Darkness? Is this some sort of miracle play?"
The man's defiance dismayed Daoud. He had hoped that the mere sight of the chamber would set Sordello to babbling and begging. He needed to be frightened more.
"Have them chain him to the ring, Lorenzo."
Sordello aimed a kick at one of the slaves following Lorenzo's orders. The African gave Sordello's arm a quick twist and got a howl of pain out of him. Soon the aging bravo, arms stretched out, legs spread apart, was suspended upright in the great hoop. The ring of iron hung from the ceiling on a single chain wrapped around a huge beam, allowing it to rotate slowly. Daoud imagined how helpless Sordello must feel hanging there.
Lorenzo took hold of the ring and gave it a spin. Face and back, face and back, face and back, Sordello whirled before Daoud. His eyes bulged.
"Figlii di cagne!" he shouted.
Still more angry than frightened. But perhaps he is just good at concealing his fear.
Daoud made a small hand gesture, and Lorenzo stopped the spin of the ring so that Sordello was facing Daoud.
Daoud studied Sordello, looking for the subtle signs that would reveal his true feelings. His eyes gleamed like a caged hyena's, full of hatred for Daoud.
Lorenzo had kept Sordello locked in a pitch-black cubicle in Cardinal Ugolini's mansion for a day and a night before bringing him here. Daoud studied the man. It was obvious from his pallor, his red-rimmed eyelids, and his sagging mouth that Sordello had lain awake much of the time in the darkness. Daoud could see the fear, too, in the clenching and unclenching of Sordello's jaw muscles.
Daoud flicked a finger at Lorenzo. "Read the love song you found on this trovatore when you seized him."
Lorenzo unfolded a square scrap of parchment and read:
Your Magnificence:
On Thursday last Donna Sophia left the Cardinal's mansion alone, on foot and heavily veiled. As she clearly did not want to be seen, your servant thought much was to be gained by following her, and so did. I regret to say she spent the afternoon wandering in the craftsmen's market, shopping for gloves, purses, and other adornments. Before Nones she went to the Church of Sant' Andrea, where she prayed a while, then went to Confession. Your servant attempted to approach close enough to overhear, but was unable to do so without being seen.
Lorenzo looked up and shook his head. "What a furfante you are! Trying to eavesdrop on penitents." He went on with the reading.
David of Trebizond has spent his days riding about Orvieto, meeting with the fattori of various trading houses that deal in silks and spices. Your servant adds a list below. The cardinal sleeps most of the day and works through the night behind the locked door of his cabinet on the top floor of the palazzo. Sometimes he mounts to the roof and studies the stars with the aid of magical instruments. Of the servant Giancarlo I am unable to make report, having not seen him all this week.
Lorenzo laughed. "That is the only true statement in this list of lies. You did not see me all week because I have been constantly at your back."
Sordello spat at Lorenzo's feet. "Ladruncolo! Sneak!" At this Lorenzo and Daoud broke into laughter, while Sordello glared at them helplessly. The hoop on which he was splayed turned slowly one way and then back the other.
"You are indignant at being spied upon?" Lorenzo chuckled. "Then imagine how we feel. And what is worse, you do not even tell the truth about us."
"I piss in your teeth," Sordello snarled.
"For instance, what you write about Madonna Sophia," Lorenzo went on, unperturbed. "You lost her a mere three streets from the cardinal's mansion. She knew you were following her and took pains to rid herself of your unwanted attentions. But you could not admit to your master what a buffone you are, so you made up all that about her buying gloves in the bazaar and going to church."
Actually, Daoud thought, that was the afternoon Sophia had come here, to Tilia's house, to see Rachel, and it would have been disastrous if Sordello had followed her. They would then have had to kill him, which would have been unfortunate, since this way of handling him was so much better.
Of course, they might still have to kill him. He already knew enough about them to send them all to the stake if he ever spoke out. He must be brought under control, to serve their purposes, or he must quietly disappear.
"So, you not only spy on us, but you lie about us," said Daoud. "And to whom do you send these lies? When the Bulgarian woman Ana takes your weekly reports back to the Palazzo Monaldeschi, to whom does she deliver them? De Verceuil? De Gobignon?"
"Go peddle your silks and spices, Messer David." The man was so ill-tempered he had not the sense to try to protect himself by hiding his anger and defiance.
Daoud gritted his teeth in frustration. Sordello was not breaking quickly enough.
Daoud sent Lorenzo a signal with two fingers. Lorenzo sprang at Sordello with his blade, a dagger so big it was almost a short sword, and slashed at his tunic, belt, and hose. The blacks grinned. Sordello roared his protests. A last flick of the blade cut away his grimy loincloth. In a moment Sordello hung naked on the ring, his shredded clothes hanging from his ankles or lying on the flagstone floor. His body was wiry and muscular, with only a small paunch at the waist. The flickering torchlight picked out the shadows of scars crossing his chest and belly. Daoud stared with curiosity and faint distaste at the uncircumcised penis peeping from its thicket of grizzled hair.
Daoud put his fingertips together and casually crossed his legs, lounging back in the throne, letting the contrast between his position and Sordello's sink in. He prayed that the man might succumb. His soul must be made of sand; how could it be otherwise?
The ring slowly rotated. Sordello twisted his head to look over his shoulder at Daoud.
"If you kill me, he will know." There was the faintest quiver in his voice.
Daoud chose not to ask the obvious question—who "he" was—but said, keeping his voice soft and kindly, "What will he learn from your death, Sordello?"
Before Sordello could answer, Lorenzo burst out, "We are not going to kill him for a long while, are we, Messer David? You promised me I could have some sport."
"Quiet, Giancarlo," said Daoud, narrowing his eyes. "You shall have your sport."
"Why torture me? Why kill me?" There was a plea in Sordello's voice now. "I have told nothing that could hurt you."
"You have told us nothing, Sordello." Daoud stood up. The platform on which the throne chair stood gave him impressive height, and the torches high in the wall behind him threw his shadow across the room.
"I admire your fidelity to your master, whoever he is," Daoud said with a smile. "What a pity he will never know about it. As I told you, this is hell, and you are dead already. You will just vanish, like a bit of rubbish washed out of the city by the rain. Your master will probably think you deserted him, as your sort of wandering ladrone so often does."
"I am not a highwayman!" Sordello's cry echoed against the stone vault. "I am a man of honor. I am an educated man, a trovatore."
"You are feccia!" Lorenzo shouted, and slapped Sordello's face hard.
"For that I will one day slice open your guts," Sordello growled.
Exasperated, Daoud saw that hurting Sordello only made him angrier. If they hurt him enough, certainly, they would have him begging for mercy, but by then they might have injured him so badly he would be of no use to them.
"Let him be, Giancarlo," Daoud snapped.
"I saved your life," Sordello said to Daoud. "I killed a man for you. Is this how you repay me—letting this pig strip me and beat me?" His narrowed eyes gave a hint of slyness. "I could be worth ten of this Neapolitan mezzano to you."
"You dare call me a pimp!" Lorenzo lunged at Sordello again, this time aiming the point of the huge dagger at his belly. Sordello twisted his body in the chains and gave a cry of fright.
"Giancarlo!" Daoud shouted sternly. "Back!"
Sordello hung rigid in his chains. Sweat ran down his face. His whole body was covered with sweat, glistening in the torchlight, and Daoud suspected he would be cold to the touch. Sordello's eyes rolled from Lorenzo, who stood frozen with the dagger outstretched, to Daoud and back again. The two blacks stood behind Lorenzo, smiling broadly.
"You are worth nothing to me at the moment, Sordello, because you refuse even to give me the one harmless piece of information I ask for. You will not tell me who set you to spy on me. So I might as well give you to Giancarlo here for his amusement." He held a hand out to Lorenzo, as if giving him leave to proceed.
"It is Simon de Gobignon!" Sordello cried. "It is to him my messages go."
Daoud's heart leapt with exultation, and he allowed himself a satisfied little sigh. A flicker of a finger told Lorenzo to lower his knife. Sordello had made the first surrender, on which all further success with him depended.
But—de Gobignon. That was a surprise. Daoud had been sure it would be Cardinal de Verceuil who would try to place a spy in his camp. A Frankish knight like de Gobignon would prefer the frontal attack, the pitched battle, to trickery. That was why the Franks were gradually losing their grip on the land they called Outremer. The French cardinal was another story. Daoud had seen in him a combination of pride, ambition, and lack of scruple that would use any means to defeat an enemy.
How to find out the truth? He ground his teeth.
"You are lying," Daoud said firmly. "It is Cardinal de Verceuil you serve. Giancarlo—" Daoud gestured, and Lorenzo went over to the brazier and slowly drew out an iron. The tip of it glowed red in the dim light of the chamber. His teeth flashing white under his thick mustache, Lorenzo advanced on Sordello.
"No! It is the truth!" Sordello shrieked, the chain that suspended the hoop rattling as he tried to pull himself away from Lorenzo and the smoking metal rod he held. As Lorenzo slowly approached, Sordello babbled out a tale of having been sent to Venice by Charles d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, to recruit and command archers for Count Simon. He had gotten into a brawl and wounded an Armenian prince who had come to Venice with the Tartars, and Simon had sent him away.
"I cannot serve Count Simon openly because the Armenians still want my blood," Sordello explained. "So he set me to spy on you instead."
The frantic haste with which Sordello spilled out his story gave it the sound of truth. This was going much better. Daoud's tense jaw muscles were relaxing.
Daoud picked up the bowl with the needle in it, gestured Lorenzo back, and slowly strolled across the chamber to Sordello. He gave the bowl to Lorenzo to hold, and drew closer until his face was only a hand's width from Sordello's, until he could smell the inner rot on the man's breath. Sordello's eyes rolled sideways, trying to watch the needle in the bowl Lorenzo was holding.
"What does de Gobignon say of me?" Daoud whispered. "What does he think I am?"
"He thinks you are a foreigner brought here by Ugolini to thwart the French plans for a crusade," Sordello gasped. "He says Ugolini is an agent of the Hohenstaufen king. He thinks Giancarlo is gathering a band of men to murder the Tartars. Please, for the love of God, do not hurt me, Messere." His eyes would fall out of his head if he stared any harder at the needle.
"Give me a candle, Giancarlo," said Daoud. He reached out without looking, and Lorenzo pressed the lighted candle into his hand. Taking a step back, he held the flame before Sordello's sweating face. His lips trembling, Sordello turned his head away.
"Look at the flame, Sordello," said Daoud softly. "Just look at the flame and listen to me. Look at the flame, and I will tell you what I really am." Daoud passed the candle back and forth before Sordello's face, murmuring reassurance. Sordello's eyes followed the candle.
He wondered if this would work. It seemed too much like magic. He had seen it done by Hashishiyya imams, but he had never done it himself.
"I am a sorcerer, Sordello, a mighty wizard. I can pass through any obstacle. I can see what people are doing thousands of leagues away. I can bring the dead back to life. I told you that you are a dead man, Sordello. You are truly dead, but you have nothing to fear, because my power can bring you back to life."
The bravo hung lax in the chains, his half-shut eyes still moving from right to left, following the candle flame. His knees had buckled and his belly sagged.
Daoud handed the candle to Lorenzo and beckoned to one of the Africans, who took the simmering pot of drugged wine from the tripod, holding it by a wooden handle, and gave it to Daoud.
"Where are you, Sordello?"
"And what are you?"
"A dead man."
"And I?"
"A mighty wizard."
"Very good. Now drink this." Daoud felt the lip of the pot to make sure it was not too hot, then brought it to Sordello's mouth. Obediently Sordello lifted his chin and opened his lips, allowing Daoud to pour the warm wine into his mouth, and then swallowed. Daoud poured more into him and then gave the pot back to Tilia's servant.
"Now you will truly know my power, Sordello. Prepare yourself for the most wonderful night of your life. You will make a journey from hell to heaven. Close your eyes and raise your head." Lorenzo held out the brass bowl with the needle, and Daoud took the needle, holding it firmly with his thumb and first two fingers. Gesturing to Lorenzo to bring the candle close to Sordello's throat, he searched out a vein just where the neck met the shoulder.
"You can feel nothing. You can feel no pain at all."
Daoud took a deep breath and prayed to God to guide his hand. He jabbed the needle into Sordello's neck. The bravo remained utterly motionless, and Daoud heard Lorenzo gasp in amazement. Daoud left the needle stuck in the pale, pink flesh. He watched Sordello closely and put his palm before his lax mouth. He could feel Sordello's breath on his palm, slow and steady, the breath of a sleeping man. After a time the craggy block of a head fell forward, and the body hung limp in the chains.
So far, all was working as he had hoped. But the man was stronger than he had thought. He had been harder to break. There was always the danger that somewhere deep in his soul a part would remain free. Daoud had heard of such things happening, of slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain who suddenly rebelled. The methods of the Hashishiyya were not perfect.
He would have to chance it. It was in God's hands now.
"Are you sure he is not dead?" Lorenzo said in a low, awed voice.
"Look for yourself. He breathes. His heart beats."
Lorenzo shook his head. "What is that stuff?"
Daoud pointed to the two Africans, who stood calmly by, awaiting orders. "They know. In the jungle below the great desert, where it is very hot and wet, a body can rot in hours. Tiny men, less than half our size, live there, and they hunt large animals for their meat. They smear this stuff on their darts. It comes from a mushroom that grows in their forest. The animal struck is paralyzed and unconscious, but it lives. They have time to carry it back to their village, which may take days, and then they can slaughter it and butcher it."
"But what a blessing this could be for the wounded and the sick," said Lorenzo. "Why does the world not know of it?"
Daoud shrugged. "The tiny men kill those who venture into their forests. What little is brought back by Arab traders is kept as a precious secret. Only sultans may permit its use." He turned to the two blacks. "Take him upstairs now."