pleasure at that.

Passing the corner where the procession had turned, he saw again a
building he had passed earlier, a formidable three-story cube of yellow
stone with slotted windows on the ground floor and iron bars over the
wider upper windows.

_And there is a man who looks happy._

He was standing in sunlight, leaning out from the square Guelfo
battlements on the roof of the big building. His hair was the color of
brass, his skin a smooth brown, such as Simon had seen on pilgrims newly
returned from the crusader strongholds in Outremer. The blond man gazed
down on the jostling, shouting crowd, smiling faintly.

As Simon rode past him, their eyes met. Simon was startled by the
intensity of the other's gaze. It was as if a wordless message had
crossed the space between them. A challenge. But then the blond man
looked away.

The Tartar ambassadors, seated side by side in a large sedan chair, were
farther up the street. Here, Simon noticed with relief, the crowd had
fallen quiet. Perhaps curiosity about the Tartars, with their round
brown faces and many-colored robes, had overcome whatever had roused
these people against them. Then, too, the Tartars were surrounded by
their Armenians marching on foot, curved swords drawn, as well as by
Simon's knights on horseback, and Venetian crossbowmen. The archers'
bows, Simon noticed, were loaded and drawn. Who had ordered that?

De Verceuil on a huge black horse--no palfrey this, but a powerful
charger--rode up to Simon. "Why did you not remain in the forefront?
What is going on up ahead?"

Without trying to defend himself, Simon described the disturbance.

"Could you not control the rabble?" de Verceuil growled, and turned to
take a position beside the Tartars' sedan chair.

Simon's face burned, and his hands trembled as he stared after de
Verceuil.

When they passed the yellow stone building, Simon looked up and saw the
blond man still there on the roof. The man was staring down at the
Tartars with that same burning look he had thrown at Simon, but there
were no weapons in the hands that gripped the battlements.

Simon heard a slapping sound and an angry cry. He turned to see de
Verceuil, his right cheek smeared brown.

_God's death! Someone threw shit at him! And hit him right in the face._

The cardinal, his face distorted as if he were about to vomit, was
staring at the stained hand with which he had just wiped his cheek.

There was laughter from the crow