"Who is looking down at you?" Lorenzo asked. His shoulders were hard and broad under Daoud's arm, and he seemed to bear Daoud's weight without the least difficulty. They were past the cathedral now, following a straight, fairly wide street that gently sloped downward. Broken clouds drifted away from the half moon. Like a watchman's lantern it hung over the center of the street, between the overhanging second stories of the houses. "My father," said Daoud, and a sob bubbled up in his throat as he softly spoke the word, albeit in the unfamiliar tongue of Italy. "How he must hate me and curse me for fighting for Islam." Lorenzo halted his stride and lifted his head. Then he started walking again. He raised his hand and gripped the wrist Daoud was resting on his shoulder. In a very low voice he said, "Someone is following us." Now Daoud stopped, tensing. He called on the power of his mind to resist the wine. His tears dried on the instant. "Walk on," said Lorenzo in a low voice. "Keep your arm over my shoulder. Keep talking to me." In a louder voice he said, "I do not believe people's souls go to a heaven of any sort." "Can they hear us?" Daoud said softly. De Verceuil, he thought. He must have decided to have me killed. His body felt cold. His journey from Egypt and all his work, despite tonight's triumph, might end here on a rain-wet street. And what would happen to Sophia if he were killed? "They cannot hear what we say. But careful, they might be able to tell from the tone of our voices whether we are aware of them. Can you fight?" "Not well. Not well at all." The Scorpion, the small crossbow hidden in his cloak, he thought, might account for one or two of them, if he could see well enough to aim it. He blinked his eyes. He saw two moons hanging over the street, blinked again, and saw one. "Do not Jews believe in an immortal soul?" he asked in a normal voice, keeping up the pretense of conversation. He cursed his lack of foresight. Why had he not thought to arrange for some of their bravos to meet them and escort them back to Ugolini's palace? Because he did not want himself connected with the fighting men Lorenzo had brought to Orvieto. That it had been a sensible precaution did not ease his anguish now. "Maimonides writes that men and women live on after they die only in the memory of others," said Lorenzo. "Of course, orthodox rabbis say that Maimonides was a heretic." "If the dead live on only in memory, then my father is truly dead, because I have done nothing for his memory, and I fight against all that he fought for." Daoud realized that his wine-numbed mind was hardly working. He was relying on Lorenzo to think of some way to get them through this. He hated having his life depend on another man's cleverness. He tried to free his thoughts from the poisonous grip of al-koahl. It had been easier earlier this evening, but he was very tired now.