w much of a woman he was possessing. To him she would
be the sweet Sicilian niece of a cardinal. He would have no idea of the
woman behind that mask.

Sophia, Daoud had come to realize, had known suffering and loss. She had
survived at the very bottom of the world, and she had risen to be the
intimate of an emperor and a king.

She occupied his thoughts, Daoud sensed with some uneasiness, far more
often than did Blossoming Reed back in El Kahira.

Simon would know Sophia Orfali, not Sophia Karaiannides, who had told
Daoud more than once, he thought with a grim smile, how much she hated
Franks. She would make a fool of this Frank.

Fra Tomasso was rambling on about the one sea voyage he had ever taken,
from Normandy to Naples. "One would think going around the continent of
Europe like that would take much longer than making the same journey
overland. It took us only a month, whereas on land it would have taken
at least three. The sea is a two-dimensional surface. On land one is
traveling over a three-dimensional surface and can encounter many
obstacles."

_Yes, and a carrier pigeon travels much faster than a ship._ In a month
or two Daoud's request for the book Fra Tomasso wanted would have
reached Baibars, and a few months after that, if Baibars could obtain
the book, the Friar's pudgy hands would be holding it.

Listening with half an ear, Daoud looked about him at the marble pillars
that ran up to the gilded beams of the ceiling, at the paintings of
angels and saints on the plaster walls, at the fragments of old Roman
statues that stood here and there--mostly nude torsos. Idolatry, yes,
but beautifully done. The arts of the Christians and their pagan
predecessors were not altogether as barbaric as he had imagined them.

Ugolini suddenly appeared at Daoud's elbow to interrupt his thoughts and
Fra Tomasso's discourse. "Excuse me, Fra Tomasso, but His Holiness
wishes a word with David."

The little cardinal's eyes darted about nervously. Obviously, the idea
of a conversation between Daoud and the pope terrified him.

"Have you had any wine?" said Ugolini in a low voice as they crossed the
room to where Urban, in his white cassock, a red cloak wrapped around
his shoulders, was sitting in a large, high-backed chair. The spiritual
father of all Christians was dressed heavily for such a warm evening,
Daoud thought. A sign of ill health.

"I never drink wine if I can avoid it," he answered Ugolini.

"Well, you wi