is true," he cried. "I am David of
Trebizond. I came here to sell silk. I have harmed no one. Please be
merciful."

Erculio grunted. "Strip him and string him up."

Daoud protested weakly, letting his voice tremble as the guards pulled
the clothes from his body. He felt the cool, dank air of the cellar on
his bare skin.

"Be careful," Erculio said. "That is a good embroidered tunic. The hose
and boots are new. Those clothes are my property now." Fussily, he
folded the garments as they fell away from Daoud and laid them on a
chair.

"Will you not return them to me--afterward?" Daoud quavered.

"Afterward?" Erculio laughed.

"What is this?" said one guard as he used his dagger to cut the thong
that held the leather capsule around Daoud's neck. The tawidh, that
healed his wounds and protected him from death.

Daoud said nothing.

_Now they can truly destroy my body._

The guard handed the tawidh to Erculio, who glanced at it and threw it
on his low chair. He frowned at Daoud.

"Put a loincloth on him, fools," he growled. "Did I say to strip him
stark naked? Are we not decent fellows here?" He fumbled about in a pile
of rags and threw one to a guard.

"That's the first time you've complained about a prisoner being naked,
Erculio," the guard grumbled as he wrapped the cloth around Daoud's hips
and passed it between his legs. "Don't you need to be able to get at his
cock?"

"Do not try to teach me my craft," Erculio said snappishly. "Up with him
now."

The guards grabbed Daoud by the arms and pushed him under dangling
chains. They lifted his arms over his head and bound his wrists with
thick leather cuffs. Then they went to a winch with a crank on each
side, next to the wall, and began to turn in unison.

Daoud cried out in pain as his body was jerked into the air. The leather
cuffs cut into his wrists. His shoulders felt as if his arms were being
torn out of their sockets.

He pictured the Soma cascading through his body, and the pain receded.
But he continued to cry out as if in unbearable agony until the two
guards stopped raising him. He hung there, the Mask of Clay sobbing and
whimpering.

Erculio scuttled over to stand under him, holding a thick stick as long
as a man's arm. Daoud's feet were just level with Erculio's head.
Leaning on the stick, Erculio looked up at Daoud, appraising his body,
and a pink tongue tip flickered under the bristling mustache.

"You have a beautiful body, Messere. Wel