until the moment the angels
knock at his door."

Sophia, who had been sitting quietly in an armless straight-back chair
with her hands folded in her lap, said, "The pope will blame the
Ghibellini for the attack on the Monaldeschi. He will want help, and he
will ask it from the French even if it means Christians joining the
Tartars in a crusade the pope does not really want."

"Very shrewd," said Daoud with a smile in her direction. "Except that
the pope had decided before the attack on the Monaldeschi to approve the
alliance with the Tartars. As we know from his persuading Fra Tomasso to
switch sides. It was because the pope had clearly turned against us that
I planned to kill the Tartars."

Daoud was tired of sitting. Despite the pain in his leg, he used his
stick to push himself to his feet and stepped out of the window recess.
He limped over to Ugolini's table.

"We must send Lorenzo to Siena with enough of our precious stones to
raise an army big enough to overwhelm the papal soldiery and the Orvieto
militia. It may take time to persuade the Sienese to act. It will take
more time to muster an army and march on Orvieto. We must begin as
quickly as we can. With the pope in Ghibellino hands, with the
Ghibellini in a position to sway the outcome of the next papal election,
we may yet keep the French out of Italy."

And that, he thought, would keep crusaders and Tartars out of the Dar
al-Islam.

Ugolini's shrug spoke more of despair than of acquiescence. "Certainly
the French will come if we do nothing. You are right about that. Do as
you will. It is a miracle we have survived this long."

Strange, Daoud thought. Ugolini saw their mere survival as miraculous.
To Daoud, failure so far to put a final stop to the alliance of
Christians and Tartars made him wonder whether God disapproved of him.

* * * * *

Once he accepted the fact that he had to go, Lorenzo had hoped the rain
would continue. Under its cover his leaving the city was less likely to
be noticed or impeded. But by mid-afternoon, the hour of None, when he
was packed and mounted, a spare horse trotting behind him, a bright,
hot sun had come out, and the puddles in the narrow streets were turning
to steam.

At the Porta Maggiore he stopped when he saw two clerks seated at tables
on either side of the gateway, one questioning each person entering the
town, the other examining those leaving. A dozen of the podesta's men in