omen used to make small
amounts of flour. Next, from a cotton bag he took two handfuls of
roasted kaviyeh beans given him by Ugolini and put them in the top of
the grinder box. He ran the beans through the grinder, rapidly turning
the crank on the box until they were a coarse powder.

He took his old pack out of the chest and found in it the brick of
hashish wrapped in oiled parchment. It nestled in the palm of his hand,
and he weighed it, wondering whether he deserved this pleasure. For that
matter, did he deserve Sophia? His attempt to kill the Tartars had
failed, and now they might be slipping out of his grasp.

With money and the threat of a French invasion, Lorenzo should be able
to persuade the Ghibellino leaders of Siena to follow their natural
inclination and send an army against Orvieto. But that army would not be
enough to counter the forces the pope could gather around himself at
Perugia.

_I must get Manfred to march._

With Manfred's help he could capture the pope and kill the Tartars. And
he saw an even larger vision. Under Manfred, Italy could become a
bulwark against the crusaders from northern Europe. Manfred was not just
friendly to Egypt. He had Muslim officials and soldiers and was not far
from being a Muslim himself.

There was so much to be done. Daoud wanted to go to Siena to hasten the
Ghibellino attack on Orvieto. He wanted to ride to Manfred and urge him
to invade the Papal States. But he had to remain here as long as the
Tartars were here. Were it not for Sophia, these months of inactivity
since that night at the Monaldeschi palace would be driving him mad.

He held the black hashish cake over the grinder, using his dagger to
shave small, coiling peels into the ground kaviyeh beans. Then he filled
a small iron pot from his water jar. He poured the mixture of water,
kaviyeh, and hashish into the pot and set it to boil on a rack over the
flame of short, fat candle.

He smiled and inhaled deeply as the rich, burnt smell filled the room.
Just the smell of kaviyeh could give him visions, making him think of
the gaily lighted streets of El Kahira, of the dome of the Gray Mosque,
of the white arms of Blossoming Reed.

When his brew was ready he poured it into an Orvieto porcelain cup
painted with bright flowers. He carried the cup to his window and pulled
the window open. Even though Orvieto was atop a great rock, the starry
sky seemed much farther away here than when he lay on his back and