"Shoot!" he shouted. "Shoot whoever did that!"
The smiles remained fixed on the faces of the Venetians as three of them aimed their already-loaded crossbows at the crowd. They did not hesitate. This was not their city; these were not their people. They were fighting men who did as they were ordered.
People screamed and shrank back against the shuttered doors and windows.
Three loud snaps of the bowstrings came at the same moment as Simon's cry of "No!"
He shouted without thinking, and was surprised to hear his own voice. His cry echoed in a sudden and terrible quiet.
Screams of agony immediately followed. People darted away from the place where the crossbowmen had aimed, leaving that part of the street empty.
Empty save for three people. Two of them screamed. One was silent—a young man who half sat, half lay against the stone wall of a house. Blood was pouring out of his mouth and more blood was running from a hole in his chest. Simon saw that the blood was coming in a steady stream, not in rhythmic spurts, which meant the fellow's heart had stopped. A glance at the white face told Simon the dead youth could be no more than sixteen.
Beside the boy, a woman knelt and wept. She was plump and middle-aged, perhaps his mother. Her white linen tunic was bloodied.
"He did nothing!" she cried. "Oh, Jesus! Mary! He did nothing!" There was a plea in her voice, as if she might bring the boy back to life if only she could persuade people of his innocence.
The other cries came from a man who stood about a yard from the dead boy. The bolt had gone through his left shoulder just above the armpit and pinned him to the oaken post of a doorway. He wanted to fall, but he had to stand or suffer unbearable pain.