"You are in such pain," she said.
He shook his head. "It is nothing."
"I do not mean the pain of the body."
She understood, then, what he was feeling. He smiled at her and shut his eyes.
She sat in silence on the edge of the bed while he lay there, brooding. Again he escaped into drowsiness. His mind drifted back to the sands of Egypt. He dreamed again of riding as a Mameluke.
When he woke, a short time had passed, and Sophia was still sitting there, gazing down at him.
Hints of a new plan began to come together in his mind. As fever purged him of poison, it had brought him dreams of battle. Not of intrigues with the priests and bishops around the pope. Not of ambushes in narrow streets. Rather, open war.
That was the meaning of those dreams. Perhaps God Himself had sent them. He was called upon to wage jihad against the enemies of Islam as a Mameluke, on horseback, at the head of an army.
He held out his arm to Sophia. "Help me up. You and Lorenzo and I must meet with Ugolini."