, and the
grimmer they looked, the more pleased he felt.

Fra Tomasso especially, he hoped, had heard enough to sway him.

He turned back to the Tartars. They, too, seemed aware of the uneasy,
unhappy silence. The pope appeared not to feel that John's inquiry
deserved an answer. The older Tartar's smile faded, and he carefully set
down his wine cup. Philip's eyes darted this way and that.

John said something to Philip in a low voice, probably a warning to say
no more. John had the look of a water buffalo beset by village curs, his
eyes smoldering, his white-wreathed head turning from side to side.
Daoud sensed, because he often felt the same way himself, how alone John
must feel, surrounded by enemies.

_He does not have ten thousand warriors at his back now._

Daoud heard a stir behind him, and turned to see the crowd parting to
let Pope Urban leave, the broad back of Fra Tomasso following close
behind him. A priest-attendant in black was coming from a corner of the
room with a cloth-of-gold outer mantle for the pope. The contessa
rustled after Urban, who turned and offered her his hand to kiss. As the
aged hostess knelt unsteadily before Urban, Daoud rejoiced at the
troubled, abstracted expression in the pope's aged eyes.

Daoud heaved himself out of his chair and stood, swaying. For a moment
his eyes would not focus, and he thought he was going to fall. Then he
saw John Chagan giving him a look as piercing as a Tartar lance. Now,
Daoud saw, John understood what he had done to him. As for Philip, he
sat slumped, only half awake, his empty wine cup held loosely. The
stout, dark-haired Ana stood impassive, hands clasped in front of her,
as if content to remain there all night. Her cheeks were now dry.

_We defeated your army at the Well of Goliath, Tartar, and now I have
defeated you at Orvieto._

"Monsters!" It was the voice of the contessa, and Daoud turned to see
her, losing his balance and having to put out a foot to catch himself.

He saw de Verceuil as well, coming across the hall almost at a run, just
ahead of the contessa, his aquamarine cloak flying. His eyes were wide,
his little mouth tight with fury. The contessa, looking just as angry,
was hurrying to keep up with him and tell him what she thought.

"You have brought monsters into my house. Everything bad I have heard
about them they have now admitted. In a year or two they will be at the
gates of Rome. They are the Huns all over again." Her eyes