t least he would quarter his French knights
and the Venetian archers as near to the doge's palace as possible. The
doge alone would be protecting the Tartars for the time being, and Simon
had no choice about it.

With Sordello's help he found lodgings for his men at the outrageous
price of two deniers a night per man--not all the thieves were on the
highways--at the nearest inn to the Piazza San Marco, just a short
distance down a side street. How much of what he paid the innkeeper, he
wondered, would end up in Sordello's purse?

Then, accompanied by Alain de Pirenne, he walked back to the entrance
gate to the doge's palace, a long three-story building that stretched
from the waterfront to the basilica. He sent a message in by way of a
guard, asking Friar Mathieu to meet him in the piazza. The kindly
Franciscan was, he suspected, the most important person in the Tartars'
entourage.

Simon and Alain had taken off their mail and were more comfortably
dressed in silk tunics, short capes, and velvet caps. Each still wore
his weapons belt, with longsword hung on the left and dagger on the
right. The leather heels of their point-toed boots rang on the stones of
the piazza as they paced, waiting to see if Friar Mathieu would come
out.

Alain was still indignant.

"They have no idea who you are, Simon. Why, you could take this whole
city and set it in one corner of the Gobignon domain and it would never
be noticed." Normally ruddy, Alain was even redder with anger. His blond
mustache bristled.

_As much as Paris goes unnoticed in the midst of the Ile de France_,
Simon thought with a smile.

Now that his armor was off and an hour or more had passed, Simon felt
more at ease and was inclined to accept the situation. After all, if he
could not get into the doge's palace, he might reasonably hope that
neither could anyone who would want to harm the Tartars.

"It is wealth and ships that make this city great, Alain, not its size."

"That is all these Venetians care about--money." Like any proper knight,
Alain despised money and those who loved it. In the course of learning
to manage his estate, Simon had acquired more respect for money.

"Even Paris has no beauty to rival this," said Simon, feeling a shade
disloyal even as he said so. "Look at those horses." He pointed to the
facade above the central doorway of the cathedral of San Marco, where
four gilded bronze horses pranced, so proud and energetic as to seem
almost i