nal Ugolini's guest," said Daoud with modesty. "And what of the
execution of the heretic who threatened the ambassadors in the
cathedral? Will Your Reverence witness that? I understand it should be a
most edifying spectacle." He folded Fra Tomasso's bit of parchment and
thrust it into the pouch at his belt.

Fra Tomasso shook his head. "The good of the community demands that we
make an example of the poor creature. He refuses to admit his errors.
Still, I cannot stand to see a fellow human being suffer. I will not be
there."

So, thought Daoud contemptuously, the fat Dominican was one of those who
could justify the shedding of blood but could not stand to see it shed.
And in the same way, d'Aquino might decide to be for war or for peace
and never see the consequences of his decision. Daoud might wish to lead
troops in battle, but he reminded himself that it was in studios like
this, where men of influence thought and read and argued, that the real
war was being fought.

XX

The madman had a loud voice. Daoud could hear him long before he could
see the victim and his torturers. The people around Daoud jostled and
craned their necks toward the sound of the screams.

The heretic, in accordance with his sentence, had been dragged through
every street in the city and tormented at every intersection, but most
of Orvieto's citizens had been waiting in the Piazza San Giovenale to
see his final agonies before the cathedral he had desecrated. The piazza
was so packed with people it seemed not another person could squeeze in.

Daoud had positioned himself at the foot of the front steps of the
cathedral. He faced a wooden platform, newly built in the center of the
piazza, on four legs twice the height of a man. Above the platform rose
a tall pole. The whole structure was of white wood, unseasoned and
unpainted--which was only sensible, since it would shortly be destroyed.
Bundles of firewood were piled under it.

Daoud's arms were wedged so tightly to his side by the crowd of people
standing about him that it was an effort for him to wipe his face with
his sleeve. He had expected Italy to be cooler than Egypt now, in the
middle of the Christian month of September, but the damp heat of summer
lingered. Thick gray clouds hung low over the city. Sweat streamed from
under Daoud's red velvet cap, and he wished he could wear a turban or a
burnoose to keep his forehead cool and dry.

At the top of the cathedral steps, in