The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 114

Something whizzed past Simon's head and struck the brick merlon beside him. A shower of chips clattered on his mail. One stung his cheek.

"Shooting back," said Teodoro. "From the sides."

Torchlight flickered from behind wooden mantlets at the mouths of the streets approaching the palace from the north and south. The rectangles of wood filled the street from side to side. From this height Simon could see the crowds of men behind each mantlet.

Fire arrows from mantlets and tortoises hissed overhead and fell, trailing sparks, into the atrium of the palace. Simon heard splashes as servants threw water on the trees.

"Put more of your men on the sides," he said to Teodoro, who hurried down the stairs inside the tower.

The moon was now a red oval low in the eastern sky. The light would help the Filippeschi target the defenders on the rooftop, but it would not expose them in the streets.

A loud crash startled Simon, and he felt the tower floor shake. Another crash and another. Stone casters. The stones were coming from all directions, and Simon could hear screams.

He turned to de Puys. "Fire our stone casters."

With de Puys gone, only Simon and the cardinal were left in the tower.

They had nothing to say to each other. The cardinal had donned his miter-shaped helmet at the first sign of the Filippeschi, and Simon could not see his face. Simon longed for Teodoro to come back.

It was Simon's equerry, Thierry, who pushed open the trapdoor. "Capitano Teodoro is. .h.i.t."

"Blood of G.o.d!" Simon pushed past de Puys to hurry down the tower's inner staircase.

Teodoro lay near the entrance to the tower, surrounded by a crowd of men-at-arms. His breathing came in hoa.r.s.e gasps, alternating with grunts of pain. It was too dark for Simon to see him well. He knelt beside Teodoro, and a vile smell of excrement choked him. Someone beside Simon was sobbing. Teodoro had been much liked among the Venetians.

Carefully Simon felt down the capitano's body. The hard leather cuira.s.s he wore was cracked down the center. Just below his chest Simon's hand met the huge rock. It was wet, probably with Teodoro's blood.

"It caught him right in the middle," said an archer standing over Simon.

"Broke him in two. Crushed his belly and his spine. Only the part of him above the stone is alive."

A gurgling sound rose in Teodoro's throat. He was vomiting, and warm liquid gushed over Simon's hand. His own stomach writhed, and bile burned his throat. He stood up suddenly, and instantly regretted it, because he had wanted to comfort Teodoro in his dying. But the gasping had stopped.

Teodoro had probably never known he was there.

Simon's hands and knees were trembling.

_So this is what it is like to be killed in battle._

He wiped his hand on his surcoat. Careful to make his voice firm, he ordered the archers back to their positions. The weight of his mail almost unbearable, he stumbled back to the doorway to the tower.

He felt his arm gripped and heard Friar Mathieu's voice. "Simon, I heard you lost your capitano of archers."

"This is much worse than I ever thought it would be, Father," he whispered, almost as if confessing.

The hand on his arm squeezed through his mail. "Trust yourself, Simon.

You will do what you must do."

By the light of a fire arrow burning itself out in the overhead screen, Simon saw the contessa, her purple gown tied up to her knees so she could move more quickly. She called Friar Mathieu to see to a wounded man, then greeted Simon.

_She thinks I am a hero. If only she knew the horror I feel._

Who was Teodoro's second-in-command? Yes, Peppino. Peppino was the one who had fought with the Armenians at Alain's funeral, but a new capitano must be appointed immediately. There was no time to balance considerations.

He managed to find Peppino and appointed him to lead the Venetians. Then on shaking legs he pushed himself back up to the roof of the tower.

"They are bombarding the rear gatehouse with mangonels," de Puys said.

Simon heard rocks thudding against the drawbridge at the rear of the palace, the entrance for horses and wagons. By moonlight he was able to make out, across the street from the rear of the palace, four mangonels, stone guns shaped like giant crossbows.

"Where did the Filippeschi get so many men and machines?" Simon wondered aloud.

"One would suppose you could answer that," said de Verceuil, his voice m.u.f.fled by his helmet. "Are you not our military expert?"

Simon was still too gripped by horror to be angry. But a part of his mind somehow kept trying to think about what the Filippeschi intended.

He became lost in thought as he gnawed at the problem, and all but forgot the battle raging around him. Numerous as they seemed, the Filippeschi had just a chance, no more than that, of overwhelming the Monaldeschi palace, especially having lost the advantage of surprise.

Was their hatred of the Monaldeschi so deep that such an uncertain chance was reason enough for them to make this effort?

_If I could but capture Marco di Filippeschi and force him to tell me why he is doing this ..._

What if this attack were a diversion, a cover for the real blow, to be struck by stealth?

Simon's body went cold.

"I must see to the Tartar amba.s.sadors," he said. He turned toward the trapdoor in the tower roof.

"Monseigneur--look--the Filippeschi are attacking again," de Puys protested. Simon turned back, looked over the edge, and saw the tortoise shapes moving forward again over the piazza while stones from mangonels slammed into the second-story gatehouse.

_No_, he thought. _Even if they break down the door, they could never get up the stairs. This attack is a feint._

"I believe the amba.s.sadors are in danger," he said.

"By G.o.d's robe!" de Verceuil boomed from under his helmet. "You are quitting the battle?"

"The battle is where the amba.s.sadors are," Simon said. "The whole purpose of this attack is to get at them."

"The whole purpose of your saying that is to get out of danger," de Verceuil retorted.

Simon quivered with rage. De Verceuil's eyes glittered coldly at him in the moonlight through holes cut in the blood-red helmet. Simon wished he could draw his sword and swing it at the d.a.m.ned cardinal's head. But he felt as if he were suddenly wrapped in chains. With de Verceuil accusing him of cowardice, how could he leave the tower?

De Puys put a steadying hand on his arm. "Monseigneur, no one can get at the amba.s.sadors. Not as long as we hold fast here."

In the florid face with its drooping mustaches Simon saw pity, but also a trace of contempt. The old warrior, too, thought his young seigneur wanted to run away. If Simon left the tower now, he would have to bear his va.s.sal's scorn. Nor was it likely that de Puys would keep silent about this. The tale would spread throughout the Gobignon domain.

_But I know I am not a coward._

Searching his heart, he knew that though he was afraid of the flying crossbow bolts and stones, he could direct the battle from the tower all night if need be. Even after Teodoro's death, and the blood still sticky on the mailed glove that hung from his right wrist, he felt strong enough to go on fighting.

If he went to the amba.s.sadors and no one struck at them, he would have been mistaken, but his leaving here would not affect the outcome of the battle. What was happening out here was a simple matter of force against force. If he remained here and the Tartars were attacked and murdered, all would be lost.

_If I do not do what I believe I should because I am afraid of what these men think, then truly I am a coward._