Daoud tried to read d'Ucello's round, swarthy face, but he could not tell whether the podesta was relieved or angry.
When Daoud did try to stand and put his weight on the burned and beaten soles of his feet, he had to clench his teeth to keep himself from screaming. His legs, which had borne the brunt of Erculio's attentions, felt lifeless, and his knees buckled. He toppled forward, and d'Ucello caught him. The podesta staggered under Daoud's weight. He snapped his fingers at a guard, who hurried over to help hold Daoud up.
As Daoud, gasping, leaned against him, d'Ucello unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around Daoud to cover his nakedness.
Such solicitude, Daoud thought wryly. I think I have suddenly become terribly valuable to him.
This could not be just the contessa's influence, he thought. He did not mean that much to her.
The Sienese.
That must be it. Erculio had said d'Ucello believed Daoud was a Ghibellino agent, and therefore he would want to kill Daoud before the Ghibellino army from Siena got here. But not, Daoud thought, if d'Ucello intended to surrender.
Erculio pressed something into his hand, a small leather pouch—the tawidh.
Daoud painfully bent his head toward Erculio and read gladness in the beady eyes.
"May you find work that suits you better, Messer Erculio," said Daoud. God give you joy, he thought.