The three other horses and the donkey were bunched together outside the gate, on the dirt path that led through trees to the Appian Way. Some of the men from the inn were out there, too, but when Daoud swung the crossbow in their direction, they backed into the inn yard. "Leave me here," the old man gasped. "I am dying." So it was he the dagger had hit. They would have to leave him, Daoud thought, and his son would insist on staying with him. And the vengeful crowd from the inn would tear the two of them to pieces. All this fighting would have been for nothing. Celino spurred his horse over to where the old man swayed in the saddle clutching his stomach. "Sorry to hurt you, but we are not leaving you," he said. He pulled the groaning wounded man across to his own horse and swung one of his legs over so that he was riding astride. Daoud saw blood, black in the faint light of the crescent moon, running out of the old man's mouth, staining his white beard. "Can you ride a horse?" Celino barked at the son. "Yes," the boy sobbed. "Get up on this one." Celino indicated the horse from which he had just dragged the old man. "Take your packs off the donkey and put them on this horse if you want them. Quickly, quickly. Leave the donkey." Daoud fingered the crossbow as the boy hastily transferred himself and his goods to the horse. _Still Celino risks our lives with his care for these strangers. Damned infidel. I am the leader of this party._ "Here they come!" cried Sophia. Waving swords and long-handled halberds--God knew where they had gotten them--and sticks and pitchforks, the crowd from the inn tumbled through the gate. Some of them were on horses. "Ride!" shouted Daoud in the voice he used to command his Mameluke troop. He kicked his spurs into his horse's side and sent it galloping down the road. He and Celino had not talked about which way to flee, but there was really only one direction they could go--north, toward their destination. That, he knew, would take them straight into the heart of Rome. There would be a price to pay for the blood they had shed this night. The great Salah ad-Din had said it: _Blood never sleeps._ VIII The clatter of four horses' hooves over the broken paving stones of the Appian Way rang in Daoud's ears. He heard shouts behind him as the men from the Ox's Head organized a pursuit. And beside him the old man, held erect by Celino's powerful arm, groaned again and again as the wild ride jolted his stomach wound. His legs dangled lifelessly on either side of the horse. Daoud looked over his shoulder and saw that the boy was keeping up, riding next to Celino. His robes were hiked up and his skinny, bare legs gleamed in the faint moonlight. Daoud could hear him sobbing loudly, in time with his father's groans, as the horses pounded onward.