"No!" cried the contessa. "Now, when I am attacked because I opened my home to the Tartars and the French, will you all abandon me? All the men of my family are dead but the boy Vittorio." She turned to Simon and seized his wrist with her clawlike hand. "You must stay and defend me. You must be my cavaliere."
Simon pressed her hand in both of his and saw tears running down her withered cheeks.
"I would not think of leaving you, Contessa."
"But, Contessa," said Friar Mathieu, "if the Tartars were to leave your palace, the Filippeschi might not attack you."
"No, no." The contessa shook her head. "If they think they are strong enough to attack me, they will. They have long sought to kill me and Vittorio. Canaglia! May God send that little bastard Marco and all the Filippeschi straight to hell!"
Friar Mathieu winced and made the sign of the cross.
Inwardly Simon winced, too, as he always did at the word bastard. But, bastard or not, he was about to command a palace under siege. He felt his chest swelling at the thought.
The candlelit audience chamber of the podesta was hung with somber maroon drapes drawn against the night air. On the wall behind d'Ucello, a tapestry depicted Jesus and Barabbas being offered to the crowd in Jerusalem while Pilate washed his hands. Simon had never seen such a large scene with such finely embroidered figures, and he admired it aloud.
"I keep it here as a reminder that a judge who heeds the popular clamor may make a grave error," said the small man behind the large table. "How may I serve you, Count?"