y enough, Friar Mathieu explained as they rode back
together. He himself had proposed to take the road to Montefiascone,
along which he had heard there was a particularly impressive view of
Orvieto. Simon remembered the spot. He had been enjoying that same view
when David of Trebizond's servant--what was his name?--Giancarlo, came
along with those three heavily armed men.

The Tartars had been pleased enough with the view, but they wanted to
ride on. Friar Mathieu felt some trepidation that they might encounter
highwaymen in the hills. But he had confidence in the Armenians, too,
and so they pressed on along the mountain road.

"They observed everything and talked to each other in such low voices I
could not hear them." Mathieu turned to give Simon a pained look. "I
think they were discussing how an army might be brought through these
hills."

Simon was appalled. He pictured a Tartar army, tens of thousands of
fur-clad savages on horseback, sweeping through Umbria on its way to
Rome, burning the towns and the farms and slaughtering the people. Simon
shook his head in perplexity. If such a thing happened, he would have
helped to bring it about.

By the time the Tartars and their entourage reached the little town of
Montefiascone, Mathieu went on, in the heart of vineyard-covered hills,
they were all hungry and thirsty. They took over the inn--the black
looks cast by the Armenians were enough to drive out the other
patrons--and proceeded to drink up the host's considerable supply of
wine.

"The wine of Montefiascone is a great gift from God," Mathieu said.
"Very clear, almost as light as spring water, just a touch sweet, just a
touch tart. And the host brought it up from a stone cellar that kept it
deliciously cold. Not strong wine, actually, but the Tartars drank _all
there was_."

Friar Mathieu pointed to the young Armenian leader, Prince Hethum, who
was now riding beside Alain de Pirenne, at the head of their procession
back to Orvieto. The prince was carrying the Tartars' purse, now
somewhat less fat with gold florins. The host at the inn had been
delighted to serve his thirsty guests, but when his supply of wine was
gone, the Tartars turned ugly. Philip Uzbek, the younger Tartar, grabbed
the host by the throat. The Armenians, who were careful to drink
sparingly, fingered their bows. The innkeeper left his wife as a hostage
and went out to the nearby farms, and after a tense hour arrived back
with a cartload o