The old Franciscan sighed. "Long enough to learn the Eastern peoples' way of counting the years in twelve-year cycles. They give each year the name of a certain animal."
"A strange system."
"A sensible system. It is easier to remember beasts than numbers. Let me see, this year, Anno Domini 1263, they call the Year of the Sheep, and when I first entered the camp of Hulagu Khan the Tartars told me it was the Year of the Dragon. From Dragon to Sheep there are"—he counted on his fingers while muttering the names of beasts under his breath—"seven animals. So, seven years since our good King Louis sent me to bear his messages to the Tartars."
"Then you went in 1256?"
"Anno Domini 1256. That is right."
Simon wanted very much to know more about life among the Tartars. But he and the old friar could have long talks on the road to Orvieto. For now there were more pressing questions.
Just as he was about to speak, the friar pointed to the gateway between the basilica and the doge's palace. "There go the Armenians."
Simon saw six of the swarthy men crossing the piazza in a line. Short-statured though they were, there was a swagger in the way they walked. They had doffed their leather armor and wore tunics of white silk with billowing red trousers over short black boots. Their tunics were cinched at the waist with black leather belts, and in each belt was thrust a curving saber in a jeweled scabbard. Their bows were slung across their backs, along with black leather quivers.
"Four of them stayed behind to guard the Tartars," Friar Mathieu said.
Simon had been wondering just how his knights and archers would share with the Armenian guards the responsibility of protecting the Tartars.