"That case is not closed," said le Gros. "Indeed, what we do here today may lead directly to the overthrow of the odious Manfred, as I am sure you both understand." He smiled, first at Simon, then at de Verceuil. "But should we not be speaking Latin, the mother tongue of the Church? Some lupus might be spying on us."
In Latin de Verceuil answered, "I fear Count Simon would be unable to follow us."
"Not at all, domini mei," Simon cut in quickly, also in Latin. "I have had some instruction in that language." His many and often quarreling guardians had agreed at least that he should have an education far superior to that of most other great barons. Having studied for two years at the University of Paris, Simon had once been the victim of a lupus, a wolf, an informer who reported students for breaking the university rule that Latin must be spoken at all times. The fine he paid was negligible, but his embarrassment was keen.
"Good for you, my boy," said le Gros, patting him lightly on the shoulder. De Verceuil's lips puckered as if he had been sucking on a lemon.
A sudden blast of trumpets silenced the conversation in the hall. Servants swung open double doors near the papal throne, and two men entered. One was Pope Urban, whom Simon had not seen since the day of that ill-omened papal mass for the Tartar ambassadors. His white beard fanned in wispy locks over his chest. The mouth framed by his beard was compressed, and his eyes were hard. Simon knew that he had been born Jacques Pantaleone at Troyes in France, not far from Gobignon, and was a shoemaker's son. Only in the Church could a man from such a humble beginning rise to such high position. Urban had the face of a man who could cut the toughest leather to his pattern.
Age had bent the pope somewhat, and he leaned on the shoulder of a man who walked beside him. This man was so unusual a figure that he drew Simon's attention away from Pope Urban. Like the Holy Father, he was wearing white, but it was the white robe of a Dominican friar, and it curved out around his belly like the sail of a galley with the wind behind it. He was partially bald, his face round as a full moon, and his eyes, nose, and mouth were half buried in flesh the sallow color of new wheat. He nodded repeatedly in response to something the pope was earnestly saying to him.
"Who is that?" Simon whispered, earning himself a black look from de Verceuil.
"Fra Tomasso d'Aquino," said Cardinal le Gros. "I am told he is the wisest man alive. Papa Pantaleone has appointed him to conduct this inquiry, unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately, dominus meus?"
"Bad enough for us that d'Aquino is Italian, he is also a relative of the Hohenstaufens. His older brothers have served both Frederic and Manfred."