Ugolini spoke in a low voice to the blond man in a language Simon guessed was Greek, and David answered at some length.

“You must suppose now that I am David speaking directly to you,” said Ugolini in Latin to the assembly, patting the front of his red satin robe.  “I come from an old merchant family of Trebizond.  Caravans from across Turkestan bring us silks from Cathay.  We are Christians according to the Greek rite.”

This provoked a hostile murmur from the audience.

Ugolini hesitated, then said, “I speak in my own person for a moment-I, too, am inclined to treat as suspect what a so-called Catholic of the schismatic Greek Church tells me.  But I have talked long with David, and I am convinced he is a virtuous man.  After all, the Greeks, like us, are believers in Christ.  And Trebizond is at war with Constantinople, so we can trust this man the more for that.”

Again David spoke in Greek to Ugolini.  Unable to understand David’s words, Simon listened to his voice.  It was rich and resonant.  A virtuous man?  A traveling mountebank, more likely.  He felt a deep distrust of both David and Ugolini.

“From time to time the Saracens tried to conquer us, but with the grace of God we fought them off,” said David through Ugolini.  “And when we were not at war with them we traded with them, for Trebizond lives by trade.  And now that the Tartars have conquered all of Persia, we trade with them.”

Fra Tomasso raised a broad hand and asked, “Do you find the Tartars honest traders?”

“They would rather take what they want by looting or tribute or taxation.  Eventually they think they will not have to trade.  They believe the blue sky, which they worship, will permit them to conquer the whole world, and then all peoples will slave for them.  Just as they use subject people, so, if you ally yourselves with them, they will use you.  You will help them destroy the Moslems, and then they will turn on you.”

He hates the Tartars.  I can hear it in his voice, see it in the glow in his eyes.  He is sincere enough about that.

A cardinal shouted out something in Latin too rapid for Simon to understand.  An archbishop bellowed an answer.  Two cardinals were arguing loudly in the pews on the other side of the room.  Suddenly all the Church leaders seemed to be talking at once.  Fra Tomasso picked up a little bell from his desk and rang it vigorously.  Simon could barely hear it, and everyone ignored it.

The princes of the Church quarrel among themselves like ordinary men.

Pope Urban stood up and lifted his arms.  “Silence!” he cried.  His voice was shrill and louder than Fra Tomasso’s bell.  The argument died down.

“Have you seen the Tartar army in action, Messer David?” d’Aquino asked.

David was silent a long time before answering.  His face took on a haunted look.  His eyes seemed to gaze at something far away.

“I was at Baghdad a week after they took it.  I came to trade with the Tartars.  There were no other people left in that country to trade with.  The Tartar camp was many leagues away from the ruins of Baghdad.  They had to move away from the city to escape the smell of the dead.  I went to Baghdad because I wanted to see.  I saw nothing but ashes and corpses for miles and miles.  The stink of rotting flesh nearly killed me.

“I found people who had survived.  Those who had not gone mad told me what had happened.  The Tartars commanded the caliph to surrender.  He said he would pay tribute, but he could not surrender his authority to them because he was the spiritual head of Islam.”

Simon heard murmurs of derision at this, but David ignored them and, speaking through Ugolini, went on.

“Over a hundred thousand Tartars surrounded Baghdad, and their siege machines began smashing its walls with great rocks brought down from the mountains by slave caravans.  Soon their standards, which are made of the horns and hides and tails of beasts, were raised over the southeastern wall from the Racecourse Gate to the Persian Tower.  The city was lost.  The Tartars promised to spare the remaining troops if they would surrender.  The soldiers of Baghdad went out, unarmed, and the Tartars killed them all with arrows.  This is the Tartars’ notion of honor.”

“They will do the same to us!” shouted a cardinal.  The pope slapped his palm loudly on the arm of his chair, and silence settled again.

“Hulagu Khan, the commander of the Tartar army, now entered the city and made the caliph serve him a splendid dinner.  After dinner the khan demanded that the caliph show him all the jewels and gold and silver and other treasures that had been gathered by the caliphs of Baghdad over the centuries.  Hulagu promised to let the caliph live, together with a hundred of his women.”

This brought a loud cackle from under one of the red hats in the front row.

“Only a hundred women!” a voice followed the laughter.  “Poor caliph!  How many was he wont to have?”

“Seeing how ugly those Saracens’ women are, I would think one wife too many,” another prelate called out.

Irritated, Simon wished he could silence them all.  This was too serious a matter for such unseemly jokes.

The ribald jests continued, to Simon’s annoyance, until Fra Tomasso rang his bell.  Then David, looking grimmer than ever, spoke to Ugolini, and Ugolini began to address the assembly.

“Next the Tartars commanded all the people of Baghdad to herd out onto the plain outside the city, telling them that they would be made to leave the city only while the Tartars searched it for valuables.

“When they had the people at their mercy they separated them into three groups, men, women, and children.  When families are broken up, the members do not fight as hard to survive.  The Tartars slaughtered them with swords and arrows.  Two hundred thousand men, women, and children they killed that day, after promising them they would not be harmed.”

Simon tried to imagine the butchering of those hundreds of thousands of people.  He had never seen any Saracens, and so the victims in his mind’s eye tended to resemble the people of Paris.  He shuddered inwardly as he pictured those countless murders.

“The Tartars now entered the city whose people were all dead, and sacked and burned it.  It had been such a great city that it took them seven days to reduce it to ruins.”

Simon’s heart turned to ice.

What if it were Paris?  Could we fight any harder for Paris than the Saracens did for Baghdad?

Ex Tartari furiosi.

“They have a superstition that it is bad luck to shed the blood of royal personages.  So they took the caliph and his three royal sons, who had seen their city destroyed and all their people killed, tied them in sacks, and rode their horses over them, trampling them to death.”

“These deeds of the Tartars smell sweet in the nostrils of the Lord!” shouted Cardinal de Verceuil.  There were cries of approval.

Without waiting for David to say more, Ugolini replied to de Verceuil.  “Yes, Baghdad was the seat of a false religion.  But it was also a city of philosophers, mathematicians, historians, poets, of colleges, hospitals, of wealth, of science, of art.  And of two hundred thousand souls, as David has told us.  Muslim souls, but souls nevertheless.  Now it does not exist.  And whoever thinks that the Tartars will do such things only to Saracen cities is a fool.”

Simon hated to admit it, but Ugolini’s words made perfect sense to him.

“They will do it everywhere!” cried someone in the audience.

Now David said through Ugolini, “What is more, the Tartars who rule in Russia have converted to Islam.  They still dream of the conquest of Europe and may return to the attack at any time.  Perhaps while your armies are occupied in Egypt or Syria.”

Fra Tomasso raised his quill for attention.  “How would you describe the character of the Tartars, Master David?  What sort of men are they?”

David answered and then looked about with his bright, compelling gaze while Ugolini translated.  “I have lived among the Tartars and traveled with them.  The Tartar is unmoved by his own pain or by that of his fellows.  The suffering of other people merely amuses him.  His word given to a foreigner means nothing to him.  He thinks his own race superior to all other peoples on earth.”

Fra Tomasso said, “What you have told us has been most enlightening, Master David, because you have seen with your own eyes.  But if your empire of Trebizond now trades with the Tartars, how is it that you come here to denounce them?”

“I came to Orvieto as a merchant bearing samples of silk from Cathay,” said David.  “It is only, as Cardinal Ugolini has said, God’s providence that I am here when you are deciding this great question.”

Fra Tomasso turned to Pope Urban.  “Holy Father, is there anything else you wish me to ask?”

Pope Urban shook his head.  “I believe I have heard enough for now.  We do not want to sit here all day.”  Smiling, he turned to David.  “Master David, we thank you for coming all this way to bring us this warning.”

“Your Holiness.”  David bowed, a fluid movement that made Simon grunt with distaste.

Curse the luck!  Why is there no one here who knows the Tartars to answer this David?  How do we know he is not a liar?  A Greek silk merchant is not the sort of person I would trust.  He would say anything if he thought it would help him sell his wares.

But doubt cooled Simon’s anger.  He did not want to admit it, but Cosmas’s and David’s tales had frightened him.  He thought of the hard, cold faces of John and Philip.  He could see them beheading women, shooting children with arrows.

Do we want to ally ourselves with such creatures?

King Louis did.  Count Charles d’Anjou, Uncle Charles, wanted the alliance.  Simon had agreed to come here.  How could he face Uncle Charles, what could he say, if he changed his mind?

A lifetime of scorn, that was what lay ahead of him if he were to turn back now.

David sat stiffly upright, his hands resting on his knees, as Cardinal Ugolini approached the pope, reaching out in appeal.

“Holy Father, your predecessor, Clement III of happy memory, declared a crusade against the Tartars after the battle of Mohi.  I beg you to sound the alarm again, like that brave trumpeter of Krakow.  A Christian prince should no more make a pact with the Tartars than with the devil.  Let the nations of Christendom be warned in the sternest terms.  Let us declare excommunicate any Christian ruler who allies himself with the Tartars.”

Shocked outcries burst from all parts of the hall.  Simon went cold.  The thought of King Louis being excommunicated horrified him.  But surely it would not come to that.  King Louis was too loyal a Catholic to defy the pope.  But that, then, meant that Simon’s mission would fail.

De Verceuil jumped to his feet.  “You, Ugolini!  You should be excommunicated for even suggesting such a thing!”

“Cardinal Paulus, you yourself have had much to say out of turn,” Pope Urban said testily.  “I give you leave now to speak in favor of this proposed alliance.”

De Verceuil took his stand in front of the papal throne, and Ugolini returned to his place in the pews.

If only the pope favored us more.  He is a Frenchman, after all.  What about this Manfred von Hohenstaufen?  The pope needs French help there.  But what a disaster for us that he asks de Verceuil to speak.  If any man can turn friends into enemies, it is de Verceuil.  We need Friar Mathieu.  In God’s name, where is he?  He could answer this David of Trebizond.

De Verceuil quickly dismissed the Hungarian’s testimony.  All that, he said, happened a generation ago.  Today the Tartars would not win such easy victories in Europe because we know more about them, and they would not invade Europe again because they know more about us.  The Tartars have new leaders since those days, and that is why they have chosen to make war on the Mohammedans.  Christian friars have gone among them, and many Tartars have been baptized.  The wife of Hulagu Khan is a Christian.  Wherever the khan and his wife travel, they take a Christian chapel mounted on a cart, and mass is said for them daily.

“Yes!” Ugolini cried from his seat.  “A Nestorian chapel.  The khan’s wife and the other Tartars you call Christians are Nestorian heretics.”

“From what I have heard of your dabblings in alchemy and astrology, it ill behooves you to speak of heresy, Cardinal Ugolini,” said de Verceuil darkly.

Ugolini stood up and advanced on de Verceuil, who was twice his height.  “As for Christian friars going among the Tartars”-he held up a small book-“let me read-”

De Verceuil turned to Pope Urban.  “Holy Father, you have given me leave to speak.”

“True, but more than once you interrupted him,” said Urban with a smile.  “Let us hear this.”

“The Franciscan Friar William of Rubruk, at the command of King Louis of France, visited the court of the Tartar emperor in Karakorum,” said Ugolini.  “This is his account of his travels in that pagan capital.  He says the Tartars were so stubborn in their ways that he made not a single convert.”  He opened to a page marked with a ribbon.  “Here is his conclusion, after years among the Tartars-’Were it allowed me, I would to the utmost of my power preach war against them throughout the whole world.’” Ugolini slapped the book shut and sat down, looking triumphant.

De Verceuil failed to respond immediately.  What a poor advocate he was, Simon thought.  If only Friar Mathieu were here.  He, too, was a Franciscan like this William of Rubruk, and he might well have the answer to Rubruk’s words.

“Friar William,” de Verceuil said at last, “wrote years before the Tartars conquered Baghdad.  As for me, I count myself happy to have heard the words of this merchant from Trebizond.”  He pointed a long finger at David, who stood in the crowd about twenty feet away from Simon.  David looked back at de Verceuil with a rigid face full of raw hatred that reminded Simon of what he had read about basilisks.

“Happy, I say,” de Verceuil went on, “to hear every detail of the utter destruction of that center of the Satanic worship of Mohammed.  I was reminded of the rain of fire and brimstone that wiped out Sodom and Gomorrah.  My heart sang with joy when I heard of the caliph, successor of that false prophet, trampled by Tartar horses.  I hold that the Tartars are God’s instrument for the final downfall of His enemies.  What wonderful allies they will make as we liberate the Holy Land from the Saracens once and for all!”

“And who will liberate the Holy Land from the Tartars?” a cardinal, forgetting his Latin, shouted in Italian.

“Be still, you fool!” cried another cardinal in French.

The Italian advanced on the Frenchman.  “Whoever says ‘Thou fool!’”-he gave the French cardinal a vicious shove with both hands-“shall be liable to the judgment.”  Another shove.

Fra Tomasso rang his small bell furiously, but the furious prelates ignored him.

Now someone had seized the Italian from behind.  Simon was shocked, having never dreamed the leaders of the Church could be so unruly.  It seemed that anything the French cardinals were for, the Italians were against.  And was the pope, though a Frenchman, likely to approve the alliance, with nearly half the cardinals against it?  And even if he did, could it succeed in the face of that much opposition?

“Pax!” the pope cried, climbing a few steps toward his throne and lifting his arms heavenward.  “Peace!” The angry sound of his voice and the sight of him slowly brought quiet to the hall.

Urban took them to task.  The whole future of Christendom might be at stake, and they were brawling like university students.  Perhaps he should treat them like students and have them whipped.  Sheepishly the cardinals and bishops took their seats with much rustling of red and purple robes.

D’Aquino asked de Verceuil if he had finished.  He said he had, and Simon’s heart sank.

I promised Uncle Charles I would work to further the alliance.  I want to believe in it.

But after listening to Ugolini’s two witnesses and de Verceuil’s feeble attempt to refute them, he was beset by frightening doubts.

He prayed he would not have to reverse himself.  If he changed his colors now and repudiated the alliance, Count Charles might well feel himself betrayed and say that Simon was no better than his father.

“But did not a Franciscan named”-the stout Dominican consulted his notes on parchment-“Mathieu d’Alcon journey from Outremer with these Tartar ambassadors?  Why is he not here to tell us what he knows about them?”

Hope leapt up in Simon’s heart.  Yes!  If they would only hear Friar Mathieu, that might yet win the day for the alliance.

And it might help me to feel I am doing the right thing.

“I assumed, before this august body, my testimony would be sufficient,” said de Verceuil with a slight stammer.  “After all, what could a mere Franciscan friar add-”

Fra Tomasso raised his eyebrows.  “I remind you, Cardinal, that His Holiness has entrusted the conduct of this inquiry to a ’mere friar’-myself.  And William of Rubruk, whose book was quoted here today, was a ‘mere friar.’  Can this Friar Mathieu be found, and quickly?”

De Verceuil spread his hands.  “I have no idea where he is, Fra Tomasso.  He parted company with us after we arrived in Orvieto and neglected to tell us his whereabouts.”

A lie!

Friar Mathieu had told everyone he would be at the Franciscan Hospital of Santa Clara.  Simon was honor bound to speak out.

Still, it took all his courage to force words through his throat-loud words at that, to make himself heard over the murmur of many conversations.

“Reverend Father!” he called out, and his heart hammered in terror as hundreds of eyes turned toward him, de Verceuil’s first of all.  “Reverend Father!”

Fra Tomasso turned toward Simon.

“I know where Friar Mathieu d’Alcon is,” Simon called.

D’Aquino raised his eyebrows.  “Who are you, young man?” When Simon announced himself as the Count de Gobignon, Friar Tomasso’s smile was welcoming enough to reassure Simon a bit.

“Friar Mathieu is at the hospital of the Franciscans,” said Simon.  “He told me he wanted to work there until his services were needed for the embassy.”

“His services are needed now,” said d’Aquino.  “Not summoning him here was an oversight.”  He glanced coolly at de Verceuil.  “The hospital is not far away.”

“I know where it is, Reverend Father.”  Simon had gone to the hospital to inquire about the man shot in the street by the Venetians, he who had died despite Friar Mathieu’s urgent efforts.

“Then have the friar fetched at once, Count, if you please,” said d’Aquino.

Simon shot a quick look at de Verceuil before he turned to leave.  The cardinal was staring at him, his long face a deep crimson and his eyes narrowed to black slits.  Their eyes met, and Simon felt almost as if swords had clashed.

Why was de Verceuil, who wanted the alliance, so angry?

I know.  He wanted to be the authority on the Tartars.  He wanted to carry the day for the alliance all by himself.

Hard to believe, Simon thought, but it seemed de Verceuil would rather see his cause lost than have someone else win credit for its success.

“I shall fetch him myself, Fra Tomasso,” Simon said loudly.

To his relief, he found de Pirenne, expecting an outing in the country, with their two horses just outside the papal palace wall.  Simon explained his errand, and together they made the short ride through the stone-paved streets to the Franciscan hospital.  There the Father Superior hastily summoned Friar Mathieu.

De Pirenne relinquished his horse to the old Franciscan.  Friar Mathieu’s bare skinny shanks, when he hiked up his robe to sit in the saddle, looked comical to Simon.

“I knew the Holy Father had called a council today,” said Friar Mathieu, “but I assumed Cardinal de Verceuil would send for me if I were needed.”

“Better to assume that he will do the opposite of what is needed,” said Simon.  Friar Mathieu laughed and slapped Simon’s shoulder.

The pope’s servants were passing flagons of wine and trays of meat tarts when Simon and Friar Mathieu entered the hall.  The arguments among the prelates had risen almost to a roar, but died down as men saw Simon escorting the small figure of Mathieu d’Alcon in his threadbare brown robe toward the papal throne.

Fra Tomasso spoke softly and respectfully to the elderly Franciscan.  While de Verceuil glowered from the pews, Friar Mathieu stood before the pope, seeming as serene and self-possessed as if he were in a chapel by himself.

And why should he not? thought Simon.  After what Simon had heard about the Tartars today, it seemed to him that anyone who could live for years among them could face anything.

D’Aquino quickly summarized what had been said so far.  Hearing the clarity and simplicity with which the Dominican conveyed the arguments, Simon could see why he was thought of as a great teacher and philosopher.

“I must warn Your Excellencies,” said Friar Mathieu, “that if you sent a thousand men to journey among the Tartars, you would get a thousand reports, each very different.  Also, you must keep in mind that the Tartars are changing so rapidly that what was true of them a year ago may no longer be so today.

“Italy, France, England, the Holy Roman Empire-all have existed for hundreds of years.  The Church has carried on Christ’s work for over a thousand years.  This city of Orvieto is even older.  But a mere hundred years ago the Tartars were tribes of herdsmen, even simpler than the Hebrews of Moses’ day.  Now they rule the largest empire the world has ever seen.”

How could such a thing happen, Simon wondered.  It seemed almost miraculous.  The Tartars must have had the help of God-or the devil.

“Imagine a baby with the size and strength of a giant,” Mathieu said with a smile.  “That is what we are dealing with here.  Such a gigantic infant might, in a moment of ungoverned anger, kill thousands of people, destroy all manner of precious objects, even sweep away whole cities.  But an infant learns rapidly, and so it is with the Tartars.  The new emperor, or khakhan as they call him, Kublai, reads and writes and converses in many languages.  And he does not destroy cities, he builds them.  He is the brother of Hulagu, who sent the ambassadors here.”

Simon began to feel relieved.  Friar Mathieu’s calm words washed over him, easing his fear that he was doing wrong by supporting the Tartar alliance.

Fra Tomasso raised a pudgy finger.  “If the Tartars are so powerful and are gaining in knowledge, does this not make them even more of a danger to Christendom?”

“It could,” said the old Franciscan.  “Let me say, Fra Tomasso-and Holy Father”-with a bow to the pope-“I can tell you only what I have seen, and then with God’s help you must judge what is best for Christendom.”

Simon glanced over at the formidable David of Trebizond, who up to now had been the most expert witness on the Tartars.  He stood stiffly, staring at d’Alcon.

There is a man sore vexed.

And de Verceuil, who should have been pleased at having this help, looked just as vexed.

Friar Mathieu outshines the cardinal, and he is furious.

“We have been told that the Tartars plan to conquer the whole world,” said d’Aquino.

“For a time they thought they could,” Friar Mathieu nodded.  “But the world surprised them by going on and on, and now their empire is so huge they cannot hold it together.  And they are such innocents, the nations they conquer are destroying them.  They die in great numbers of the diseases of cities.  In their prairie homeland they were not familiar with the strong wine drunk by farmers and city folk, and now many of their leaders die untimely deaths of drink.  Also, as they grow wealthier and more powerful, they fight over the spoils they have taken.  When they invaded Europe they were still united, and they were able to throw all their strength into that war.  But now they have broken into four almost independent nations.  So divided and extended, they are much less of a danger to Christendom.”

How could they hold their empire together, thought Simon, when they had been nothing but ignorant herdsmen a generation ago?  Mathieu’s discourse made sense.

“So,” said Fra Tomasso, “we are no longer dealing with a giant, but with a creature closer to our own size.”

“Yes,” said Mathieu, “and the proof is that only a few years ago, for the first time anywhere in the world, the Tartars lost a great battle.  They were defeated by the Mamelukes of Egypt at a place called the Well of Goliath in Syria.  If Hulagu’s army had won that battle, the Tartars would be in Cairo, and they might be demanding our submission instead of offering us an alliance.”

“But you think it is safe for us to ally ourselves with them now?”

Friar Mathieu looked sad and earnest.  “If we and the Tartars make war on the Mamelukes separately, we will be defeated separately.  And then, as sure as winter follows summer, the Mamelukes will take the few cities and castles and bits of land our crusaders still hold in Outremer, and all those generations of blood spilled for God and the Holy Sepulchre will have been in vain.”

Now Simon’s relief was total.  He felt like singing for joy.  He was on the right side after all.

Friar Mathieu stopped speaking and there was silence in the hall.  Gradually the prelates began talking.  But there were no shrill outbursts from those who opposed the alliance.  The voices of all were subdued, respectful.

The pope beckoned Friar Mathieu to his chair and spoke a few words to him, holding him by the arm.  The old friar slowly lowered himself to his knees, bent and kissed Urban’s ring.

Fra Tomasso called for silence, and Urban rose and blessed the assembly.  Simon fell to his knees and crossed himself, thinking, If I stay here very long, I shall get enough of these papal blessings to absolve me from punishment for a lifetime of sin.

Accompanied by d’Aquino and a phalanx of priests, the Holy Father left the hall by the side door.  The arguments in the hall grew louder.

As he rose to his feet, Simon saw de Verceuil hurrying toward the front door, his small mouth tight with anger.  A protective impulse made Simon look about for Friar Mathieu.

There he was, at the center of a small group of friars.  Simon started toward him.

A figure blocked his way.

Even though he touched nothing palpable, he stopped as suddenly as if he had run into a wall.  And the face he was looking into was hard as granite, eyes alight with the icy glow of diamonds.  And yet it was not a cold face.  There was something burning deep inside there, a fire this man kept hidden most of the time.  That fire, Simon felt, could destroy anything in its path if allowed to blaze forth.

David of Trebizond was silent, but as clearly as if he had spoken, Simon heard a voice say, I know you, and you are my enemy.  Beware. Simon realized that David had intended to meet him like this, intended Simon to seek the unspoken threat in his eyes.

He is trying to frighten me, Simon thought, and was angered.  He held his arm still, but he knew that if his sword had been buckled at his side, nothing could have stopped him from reaching for it.

Simon looked the broad-shouldered man up and down, taking his measure.  David, half a head shorter than Simon, stood relaxed but imposing, his hands hanging at his sides.  That a man could appear at once so composed and so challenging was unique.

This man is no trader.  It is not just an accident that he has come here to speak against the alliance.

Who and what is he-really?

Simon drew in a deep breath and said in gruff Italian, “Let me pass,
Messere.”

Slowly, almost insolently, David drew aside.  “Forgive me, Your Signory.  I was studying your face.”  He spoke Italian with a strange accent.  “I thought I might have seen you a long time ago.  But that is not possible, because a long time ago you would have been a child.”

What does that mean?  Is he trying to remind me that I am younger than he is?

“I am sure we have never met, Messere,” Simon said coldly.

“Quite right, Your Signory,” said David.  “But no doubt we will meet again.”

Simon walked past the man from Trebizond.  His back felt terribly exposed, and he held his shoulders rigidly.  He felt the enmity from behind him as sharp as a dagger’s point.