Simon had just set foot to the steps leading to the third story of the Monaldeschi palace, where his bedchamber waited. He most definitely did not want to be disturbed this evening. But the steward had shown gravity and discretion arranging for the drunken Tartars to be bundled off to bed, and Simon felt that whatever he might say would be worth listening to.
"Late this afternoon a vagabondo came to our door. He claims to be a former retainer of yours. He begs an audience with you—most humbly, he says to tell you. He waits in the kitchen. We can keep him till tomorrow. Or we can put him out in the street. Or you can see him. Whatever Your Signory desires."
A former retainer? A sour suspicion began to grow in Simon's mind.
"Did he at least tell you his name?"
"Yes, Your Signory. Sordello."
Simon felt hot blood pounding at his temples in immediate anger.
Has that dog had the temerity to follow me all the way to Orvieto?
"Send him away," he said brusquely. "And do not be gentle about it."
The steward's stern face remained expressionless. "Very good, Your Signory." He bowed himself away. A good servant, thought Simon. He showed neither approval nor disapproval. Simon started up the stairs.
What the devil could Sordello have to talk to me about?