There he was, at the center of a small group of friars. Simon started toward him. A figure blocked his way. Even though he touched nothing palpable, he stopped as suddenly as if he had run into a wall. And the face he was looking into was hard as granite, eyes alight with the icy glow of diamonds. And yet it was not a cold face. There was something burning deep inside there, a fire this man kept hidden most of the time. That fire, Simon felt, could destroy anything in its path if allowed to blaze forth. David of Trebizond was silent, but as clearly as if he had spoken, Simon heard a voice say, _I know you, and you are my enemy. Beware._ Simon realized that David had intended to meet him like this, intended Simon to seek the unspoken threat in his eyes. _He is trying to frighten me_, Simon thought, and was angered. He held his arm still, but he knew that if his sword had been buckled at his side, nothing could have stopped him from reaching for it. Simon looked the broad-shouldered man up and down, taking his measure. David, half a head shorter than Simon, stood relaxed but imposing, his hands hanging at his sides. That a man could appear at once so composed and so challenging was unique. _This man is no trader. It is not just an accident that he has come here to speak against the alliance._ _Who and what is he--really?_ Simon drew in a deep breath and said in gruff Italian, "Let me pass, Messere." Slowly, almost insolently, David drew aside. "Forgive me, Your Signory. I was studying your face." He spoke Italian with a strange accent. "I thought I might have seen you a long time ago. But that is not possible, because a long time ago you would have been a child." _What does that mean? Is he trying to remind me that I am younger than he is?_ "I am sure we have never met, Messere," Simon said coldly. "Quite right, Your Signory," said David. "But no doubt we will meet again." Simon walked past the man from Trebizond. His back felt terribly exposed, and he held his shoulders rigidly. He felt the enmity from behind him as sharp as a dagger's point. XV Simon guided the black palfrey carefully down the road into the wooded valley west of Orvieto. The path, like the streets of the city, was carved from rock and slippery. When he needed to think, Simon liked to get out of doors, beyond any walls, and to feel a good horse moving under him. It was now a week since the day of the papal council, and its inconclusive outcome troubled him sorely. The pope had repeatedly postponed his audience with the Tartar ambassadors, pleading a sudden excess of phlegm. The Tartars were growing restless, pacing the courtyard of the Palazzo Monaldeschi, muttering to each other angrily and refusing to speak to anyone else.