lips. "To spy upon them? Your Signory, I was made for such work.
Thank you, thank you for letting me serve you. Command me, Your Signory,
I beg."

XIX

"Are there any great collections of books in Trebizond?" Fra Tomasso
leaned forward intently, and his belly, swathed in the white linen robe
of his order, pushed the small black writing desk toward Daoud.

Fra Tomasso's dialect was easy for Daoud to understand. It was the same
as Lorenzo's, since the friar came from southern Italy. It was the
dialect Daoud had learned in Egypt.

But in another sense, conversing with d'Aquino was not at all easy. His
body tense, Daoud sat on the edge of his chair, alert for any question
that might be meant to trap him. And at the same time, he burned for a
chance to persuade the stout Dominican to oppose the Tartar alliance. He
was both hunted and hunter today.

"Yes, Father. The basileus of Trebizond--the emperor--has the biggest
library, with the monks of Mount Gelesias not far behind. Several of the
great families have large collections of very old manuscripts. I am
afraid I cannot tell you what is in any of those libraries. I know more
about spices and silks than I do about books. Is there a particular book
you are interested in?"

Daoud, relieved, watched the round face glow as the Dominican seemed to
relish the possibilities. It would never have done to admit it to
Ugolini, but Daoud was not without fear. He realized that a slip might
lead to his arrest and torture, the end of his mission, and, finally,
death. His head had begun to ache from the effort of posing and
answering all questions with care.

But now he sensed a way of reaching d'Aquino. More than anything else,
the man would want books--books that would help him write more books of
his own. Perhaps his huge physical appetite was but a reflection of his
hunger for knowledge.

"Ah, Messer David." He smiled, and Daoud realized that his mouth was not
small--it only looked small because of the round cheeks on either side
of it. "There is one book I have heard of that I would give everything I
possess--if I possessed anything--to own. You are familiar with _the_
philosopher, Aristotle?"

Daoud nodded. How wise it had been of Baibars, he thought, to command
him to spend months with a mullah from Andalus who was versed in the
philosophies of the Christians and of their Greek and Roman
predecessors. Daoud had even read works by Aristotle in Arabic.

"Much of my