a space cleared by papal guards,
stood six red-robed cardinals. Ugolini was among them. He had not wanted
to witness the execution, but Daoud had persuaded him to go. His
presence, like Daoud's, might counter the suspicion that those who
opposed the alliance with the Tartars were connected with the
disturbances against them.

Near Ugolini stood Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil, the Tartars' chief
supporter in the Sacred College, in a scarlet robe trimmed with ermine,
and a broad-brimmed red hat. He looked disdainfully down at another
cardinal who Ugolini had pointed out to Daoud as Guy le Gros, also a
Frenchman. Every so often de Verceuil would cock an ear to the screams,
which were coming closer, or he would glance that way with bright, eager
eyes.

Behind the cardinals stood a man-at-arms holding a staff bearing the
pope's standard, a gold and white banner blazoned with the crossed keys
of Peter in red. Ugolini had learned from the pope's majordomo that His
Holiness would not attend. Like Fra Tomasso, Urban had neither need nor
desire to see this execution.

One who did have to witness the torture and death of the heretic stood
with folded arms on the cathedral steps. He was stocky and much shorter
than the two guards in yellow and blue, the city colors, who stood
holding halberds on either side of him. His face was grim, and there
were deep shadows around his eyes. A small, thin mustache adorned his
upper lip. Daoud knew him to be Frescobaldo d'Ucello, podesta of
Orvieto.

Daoud's eye moved on. There was the young hero, the man who had captured
the would-be assassin. Count Simon de Gobignon stood a little apart from
the churchmen and the podesta, speaking to no one. It seemed he had
brought none of his Frankish henchmen with him. The black velvet cap he
wore and his long dark-brown hair contrasted with the pallor of his thin
face. His dress was rich but somber, his silk mantle a deep maroon, his
tunic purple. His gloved left hand played nervously with the hilt of his
sword, that very sword that had stricken the blade from the heretic's
hand.

It was surprising, Daoud thought, that the count's sword was a long,
curving scimitar with a jeweled scabbard and hilt. What was the boy
doing with a Muslim sword? A trophy of some past crusade, no doubt.

_Not enjoying your triumph here today, are you, young Frank? Born to
rank and power and wealth, with castles and knights and servants and
lands all around you. You have pro