re will be no alliance at all._

And it would be his fault. The little honor that was left to the House
of Gobignon would be lost.

A wave of anger at himself swept over him. Had he dedicated himself to
the alliance only so that he might free himself from the agony of his
guilty secret and his house from dishonor? He thought of King Louis and
how pure was his desire to win back for Christendom the places where
Christ had lived. How impure were Simon's own motives!

As long as he put his own needs first, he would continue to deserve the
burdens of guilt and shame.

VII

In the Name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful.
All praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds.
Master of the Day of Judgment.

Daoud stood perfectly still, looking into the violet sky, reciting in
his mind the salat, the prayer required of a Muslim five times daily.
This was Mughrab, the moment when the last light of sunset had drained
away. An evening breeze cooled his face, welcome after a day of
traveling under the summer sky of Italy. Oriented by a bright crescent
moon just rising, he faced southeast, toward Mecca. His back was to the
stone wall of the inn called the Capo di Bue, the Ox's Head, where he
and Sophia and Celino had decided to spend the night. On the other side
of the wall, loud voices contended for attention, the sound of travelers
in the common room settling down to supper.

Praying in the dusk reminded Daoud that he was alone. What would it be
like now in El Kahira, the Guarded One? He would be praying with
hundreds of fellow Muslimin, standing shoulder to shoulder, all equal
before God, in the Gray Mosque, all listening to the call of the blind
muezzins from the minarets--"Come to the house of praise. God is
Almighty. There is no god but God."--all facing the Prophet's birthplace
together in holy submission. Daoud's prayer might be the only one going
up to God tonight from anywhere near Rome.

All around him towered ruins. The silhouettes of broken columns rose
against the darkening sky, and across the Appian Way the ragged shape of
what had once been a wall. Pines stood tall and black where, according
to Lorenzo, some wealthy woman of ancient Rome had her tomb.

He tried to forget his surroundings and to think only of the salat. It
was hard to concentrate when he could not assume the proper positions
for prayer--raise his hands, kneel, strike his forehead on the ground.
He fixed his mind on the infinity of