Teodoro lay near the entrance to the tower, surrounded by a crowd of men-at-arms. His breathing came in hoarse gasps, alternating with grunts of pain. It was too dark for Simon to see him well. He knelt beside Teodoro, and a vile smell of excrement choked him. Someone beside Simon was sobbing. Teodoro had been much liked among the Venetians.
Carefully Simon felt down the capitano's body. The hard leather cuirass he wore was cracked down the center. Just below his chest Simon's hand met the huge rock. It was wet, probably with Teodoro's blood.
"It caught him right in the middle," said an archer standing over Simon. "Broke him in two. Crushed his belly and his spine. Only the part of him above the stone is alive."
A gurgling sound rose in Teodoro's throat. He was vomiting, and warm liquid gushed over Simon's hand. His own stomach writhed, and bile burned his throat. He stood up suddenly, and instantly regretted it, because he had wanted to comfort Teodoro in his dying. But the gasping had stopped.
Teodoro had probably never known he was there.
Simon's hands and knees were trembling.
So this is what it is like to be killed in battle.
He wiped his hand on his surcoat. Careful to make his voice firm, he ordered the archers back to their positions. The weight of his mail almost unbearable, he stumbled back to the doorway to the tower.
He felt his arm gripped and heard Friar Mathieu's voice. "Simon, I heard you lost your capitano of archers."
"This is much worse than I ever thought it would be, Father," he whispered, almost as if confessing.