"Five hundred men and siege weapons!"
Simon pictured the Monaldeschi palace with its great tower crumbling under a bombardment of boulders. He saw men swarming over it like ants. He saw the defenders lying dead in the ruins—de Puys, Thierry, the Armenians, the Venetians—himself. He saw the Tartars with their throats cut.
Again he felt the urge to run back to the palace to prepare at once. Again he suppressed the urge so he could ask more questions.
"Where did they get such forces?"
Sordello shrugged. "They are a big family. They have relatives in the outlying towns."
Simon bent down to look deep into Sordello's bloodshot eyes. "Are you sure Ugolini and David of Trebizond and the rest are not involved? If we French and the Tartars are the provocation, Ugolini must be behind this."
Sordello tapped his cheek just under his right eye. "Your Signory, I watch them as closely as those priests watch the miraculous altar cloth. Ugolini has been in despair all winter, since Fra Tomasso changed sides. He buries himself in his cabinet with his magical instruments. David has lost interest in the Tartars and thinks only about trade. He talks to Giancarlo of making up a caravan to go back to Trebizond. The two of them left for Perugia on business yesterday."
"What about Giancarlo's bravos?"
"Altogether, Giancarlo has hired only a dozen such men, including myself. We guard David's goods and escort his caravans." Sordello waved a hand in dismissal.
"And what of the cardinal's niece?" said Simon, trying not to sound especially interested.