vishes singing and dancing;
impromptu sermons would be delivered in various parts of the crowd by
mullahs or by ordinary men moved to speak. Here all was focused on the
center.

Pope Urban rose to speak. He had removed his mitre to say mass. His
white hair, his long beard, and his trailing mustache seemed much more
sparse than they had been when Daoud had first seen the pope, last
summer. His face was as pale as his hair, and his hands trembled.

A few months ago Daoud had heard Urban's voice rise robustly from the
center of his body. Today his voice was high and thin and seemed to come
from his throat. He told the story of the miracle of Bolsena, and
explained that Father Kyril was a priest from Bohemia who had developed
doubts about whether Christ was really present in each and every
consecrated Communion wafer. Could a small piece of bread really become
the body of Jesus when a priest said a few words over it?

_Where is the illness?_ Daoud's Sufi-trained eye told him it was deep
within Pope Urban; it had sunk its claws into his chest.

_I do not think this pope has long to live._

Ugolini had told Daoud that Urban wanted desperately, before he himself
died, to strike a death blow against the Hohenstaufen family. He wanted
Count Charles d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, to wrest the crown
of Sicily from Manfred, but King Louis had thus far forbidden his
brother to make war on Manfred.

King Louis wanted a different war, a joint war of Christians and Tartars
against Islam. Thus far, the pope had withheld his approval of any
Christian monarch's allying himself with the Tartars.

As Urban heard the approaching wings of the Angel of Death, might he be
more inclined to grant Louis what he wanted?

The crowd was no longer silent. Daoud heard waves of murmuring run
through it as people relayed the pope's words to those who were too far
away to hear him. He noticed now the hawklike profile of the Contessa di
Monaldeschi. She was seated in a chair in front of the worshipers on the
side of the pavilion opposite Daoud. A plump young boy in red velvet
stood beside her.

Seeing her, Daoud looked for Marco di Filippeschi. He could not be sure,
but the back of a dark head on this side of the pavilion looked like
that of the Filippeschi chieftain. Those organizing this ceremony would,
of course, be careful to separate the leaders of the two feuding
families.

Pope Urban continued: Father Kyril, realizing that he wa