as looking the other way, so he could not see his
assailants. The people crowded in front of the shops were mostly young
men, but women and children were scattered among them. They wore the
dull grayish and brownish garments of workers and peasants. The
street-level windows behind them were shuttered, and the doors were
closed tight. That was a sure sign, Simon knew from his Paris student
days, that the shopkeepers expected trouble.

From the Porta Maggiore, the main gate where they had entered, the
street curved toward the south side of the town. Though the upper
stories of many houses overshadowed the street, there was room enough
for the procession to move along, four horses abreast, and for the
unruly people to gather on either side. Approaching the south wall of
the city, the street made a sharp bend to the left, and Simon had lost
sight of the Tartar emissaries behind, who were--_What a
mistake!_--being carried in an open sedan chair. Were they being pelted
with garbage?

Why were the people of Orvieto doing this? True, everyone in Christendom
had heard wild tales of the Tartars. That they were monsters with dogs'
heads. That they bit off the breasts of women. That they stank so
abominably they overcame whole armies just with their smell. That they
were determined to kill or enslave everyone on earth. There were
churches where people prayed every Sunday to be delivered "from the fury
of the Tartars."

But it had been over twenty years since the Tartars had invaded Europe,
and even then they had come no farther than Poland and Hungary. Why
should these people of Orvieto turn so violently against them now, when
they came in peace?

Undoubtedly someone was stirring them up.

_Hang de Verceuil and his orders_, Simon thought. _I should be with the
ambassadors. If someone wants to kill them, this would be a perfect
chance._

He tugged on the reins of his palfrey, pulling her head around. "Make
way!" he shouted, spurring his horse back the way he had come.
Men-at-arms with spears and crossbows cursed at him in various Italian
dialects, but they opened a path, pushing back the people. Thierry rode
a small horse in Simon's wake.

"Imps of Satan!" came a shout from the crowd. "The Tartars are devils!"

Simon scanned the faces below him. Some looked angry, some frightened,
many bewildered. No one looked happy. The cardinal's hope for an
impressive entry into Orvieto had been quite dashed, and Simon felt a
sneaking