Father Andronikos nodded.
“Do you know who is responsible?”
He shook his head, but a little too sharply to be convincing.
“We must establish contact with them,” Maria Zoë explained.
“Couldn’t you just let the abbot and his brothers go?”
“Not without the release of Toron. If we release the abbot and his brothers and they retain Toron, then they will threaten his life to gain other concessions.”
“Very possibly,” Father Andronikos conceded, while John whispered a quick translation of the dialogue to his father.
Ibelin got abruptly to his feet and stood towering over the priest, who hastened to stand as well, wary of what was coming. “People may not like paying taxes, but without taxes no government can function. Since driving the Templars out, government on this island has broken down. Lawlessness is increasing by the day—whether it is pirates on the waterways or robbers on the highways. I understand that you might prefer to be ruled by your own, but I wouldn’t be so sure the current Greek Emperor is so benign.”
Maria Zoë translated his speech quickly.
Father Andronikos answered, “We are not asking for rule from Constantinople. Better a despot of our own, here on the island, readily accessible to our complaints and pleas. King Richard promised a restoration of the laws of Manuel I. That is all we ask and expect.” Andronikos’ tone was reasonable and his expression mild, yet there was pride and determination underneath his words, too.
Ibelin nodded at the end of John’s translation, but made no promises. Instead he insisted, “We must speak to the men who hold Lord Toron. It takes two to have a dialogue.”
“I suggest, then, that you do not live with the Templars,” Father Andronikos advised a touch tartly.
“No? Where else are we safe?”
“Go to Paphos. The castellan of the royal fortress on the shore is an old and honorable man, appointed by Manuel himself. Tell him your mission and request his hospitality. You’ll find the accommodations far more comfortable than with the Templars, my lady,” Father Andronikos added, turning to Maria Zoë. Then, focusing again on Ibelin, he promised, “I will see what I can find out and send word to you there.”
Paphos, Cyprus
Father Andronikos had not lied about either the accommodations or the castellan at Paphos. The old man had welcomed them graciously, opening up the royal apartments that had been unused since the last visit of Isaac Comnenus in 1189. As with so many structures built in the previous century by the Greeks, the masonry consisted of layers of different-colored stone to create stripes. Although the ground and second floor were windowless, the upper story, on which the royal apartments were located, had batteries of arched windows between delicate marble pillars. From the inside, the rooms initially seemed dingy and stuffy because the windows had been sealed with hides against the storms of winter, but the day after their arrival a strong southwest wind chased away the snow with unseasonably warm, sunny weather. Removing the heavy hide coverings from the windows, they had let in the fresh air and sunlight. At once the suite of rooms was transformed: the gold and silver mosaics glistened, and the polychrome marble in elaborate geometric designs on the floor and the frescoes on the walls came to life in full color. The castle also boasted a very welcome bath.
Ibelin was even more pleased by the defensibility of the compact fortress. It sat astride the start of a hook of land that extended out southwards from the shoreline and curled to the east to form a small harbor. The castle was thus protected by water on three sides: by the sea to the west, the harbor to the east, and a salt-water moat on the north. Furthermore, it provided generous accommodations for both man and horse. With the men he had with him, Ibelin felt confident he could withstand a short spasm of violence, although the stores were inadequate to endure a long siege.
After settling in and setting a watch, Ibelin and his lady set out to explore Paphos. The city was still enclosed in a massive but largely ruinous wall, from which (evidently) the residents regularly obtained masonry for new buildings, creating a sense of decay. Within the wall, the sense of ancient majesty brought low continued. Between monumental buildings with marble columns and expressive statues, rough stone and plaster houses huddled like beggars. In the once-grand agora the columns lay toppled, the individual disks of marble lying like sliced salami on top of one another—evidently the work of an earthquake. In the Greek theater, people were living in the three-story structure behind the stage, their laundry fluttering on lines dangling from the windows.
Everywhere they went they were accompanied by a flock of noisy boys, more pickpockets than beggars. Although Georgios and Amalric kept the boys well out of range by flanking the Ibelins warily and chasing the most impertinent boys away with well-aimed kicks and sheathed swords, the pack of boys still clung to the Franks like flies. Older beggars, many with crutches or missing limbs and eyes, tried to block their way. They took expert advantage of the fact that the sewers appeared to be blocked or broken, so that in many places foul-smelling water spilled onto the once well-paved streets. Ibelin also noted that the fountains were dry and filled with rubbish, much of it stinking.
“The earthquake that destroyed the agora may well have broken the aqueducts and underground drainage,” Ibelin concluded.
“Obviously,” Maria Zoë observed as they stepped over yet another leaking sewer.
“The point is: the fountains and drains prove that the city had a functional water and drainage system. This isn’t like Ibelin, where we had to build everything ourselves. All that’s needed here is to find out where the damage is and repair it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Not cheap, but the stink and rubbish creates a false image of poverty.”
“False?” Maria Zoë asked skeptically, wishing it was not beneath her dignity to hold her nose.
“Didn’t you notice the ships in the harbor as we set out?” her husband answered.
“Yes,” Maria Zoë answered cautiously, not sure what he was driving at.
“Didn’t you notice the cargoes?”
“One was loading timber,” John spoke up eagerly, earning a smile from his father.
“Exactly, and not just ordinary timber: huge logs such as I’ve never seen before in my life. You can see a wagon with them there. They must come from the Troodos Mountains, and they are worth nearly their weight in gold. The Italian cities need timber like that for the masts and keels of their ships, but it is almost impossible to find in any land on the Mediterranean. Logs like that usually have to be imported from the Baltic Sea, and that takes forever and costs a fortune. From here, those ships can sail directly to Genoa, Pisa, or Venice at much lower cost. Did you notice anything else, John?”
“There were sugar cones on the quay,” John readily answered, “and vats of honey, too.”
“You would notice that!” his mother observed, knowing John’s addiction to sweets.
They laughed together, but Balian quickly turned the conversation back to the exports at the port. “Anything else?”
“Wine, I think,” John ventured, less sure of himself. There had been a lot of activity at the port as the winter was drawing to a close and ships were making ready for the first sailing of the season. The first ships out would reap the greatest profit in Western markets starved throughout the winter of whatever produce they could bring.
“Wine, olive oil, and ore of some sort—which is a waste to export when they could be smelting and refining it here. And did you see any evidence of someone recording and taxing these exports?”
Maria Zoë and John stared at him in astonishment. Neither had even thought to look for evidence of that.
“No, you didn’t,” Ibelin answered his own question, “because the customs house was an empty ruin, gutted by what I think was a recent fire.”
“Ah.” Maria Zoë was beginning to sense the drift of her husband’s thoughts.
“With the revenues from the exports in the
harbor, it would almost certainly be possible to repair these sewers and the aqueduct, but people are too short-sighted to understand that. They prefer not to pay customs and export duties—and live in filth.” He gestured to the heaps of rotting vegetables collected in a clogged ditch beside the road.
“John!” he continued, coming to an abrupt halt. “Do me a favor and go across to that bathhouse and ask the price of a bath.”
John looked at him, puzzled. “But there’s a bath in the castle.”
“I don’t intend to use that dump,” Ibelin countered, “but we know for a fact that Aimery hasn’t seen a denier in revenue from Paphos in the last six months, right?”
Maria Zoë and John nodded.
“Well, I’ll wager if you ask them what they’re charging, they will name a price higher than in the best bathhouses in Acre—without giving an obol to the Crown. Which means that the owners are enriching themselves shamelessly.”
Now John was interested, too. With a smile he darted across the cobbled plaza to duck into the bathhouse, which was covered with a low dome that appeared to date from the Turkish occupation. His parents waited for him in the square, while Georgios yet again chased off the beggars and pickpockets with a flood of inventive curses.
“Why do I get the impression,” Maria Zoë started, “that you like it here?”
Balian threw back his head and laughed. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Sometimes. You do like it, don’t you?”
“Maybe it’s being near the sea again,” Balian tried to explain himself. “Listen to the gulls. They remind me of home.”
“Ibelin smelled considerably better!” Maria Zoë countered, but inwardly she was pleased by Balian’s reaction to Paphos. Up to now he had been curious and intellectually challenged by the problems facing Aimery, but he had remained detached as well, as if waiting for something. Here, at last, the enthusiasm Aimery, John, and even Philip felt for the island appeared to have ignited in her husband, too.
John was back. “Eight obols!” he declared triumphantly. His father was right. This was two obols more than the baths of Acre asked—after tax.
“No wonder no one protested when the Templars seized the treasure of the millers, bakers, and bathhouses,” Maria Zoë noted with a snort.
“Exactly. If we ask, we’ll probably find that prices for grain, bread, wine, oil—everything that is usually taxed—have exploded in the last four years since the fall of Isaac, but not because of excessive taxation—as the people have been led to believe. What’s happening is that the people who control the resources are keeping what they used to pay to the Crown for themselves, and more. As a result, the rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and no money goes for the public good anymore—whether it’s fixing the aqueduct or the sewers or simply driving out the robbers and pirates. This island is sinking into greater and greater lawlessness, not just because of the rebellion against us, but out of the sheer greed of the inhabitants themselves.”
“Isn’t that what Mother said practically the day we arrived?” John reminded his father. “She said, ‘This island needs a government, not an army of occupation.’”
“Did she?” Balian looked at his wife in admiration.
“Yes, I think I did say something like that,” Maria Zoë agreed, inwardly preening that John had taken note.
“Well, she’s right,” Balian agreed with a smile for Maria Zoë. “But how do we re-establish royal authority without a king—and, more important, without recognition of our legitimacy?”
“Aimery thinks the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor will give him a crown.”
“And he’s probably right,” Balian agreed, “but the people here aren’t going to recognize that as legitimate, are they?” he asked his Greek wife.
“No,” she admitted. “Both authorities are seen with suspicion, if not outright hostility.”
“So whose authority would they accept and respect?” John asked.
“I think,” Maria Zoë started cautiously, “that you—we—need to appeal to their pride and love of independence. Didn’t Father Andronikos say they would prefer a local despot to a distant one?”
“I’m not so sure about that. It’s easier to cheat a distant despot than a near one,” Balian countered.
They had reached the wall on the far side of the city. It was in an even more crumbling and ruinous state. Balian turned around, and they started back toward the harbor and castle.
“As I’ve said before, I believe the Greek clergy is key,” Maria Zoë returned to her favorite thesis. “If we could get the local Church hierarchy to advocate Frankish rule—not necessarily as legitimate, but as the lesser evil to lawlessness and spiraling violence—that would go a long way towards buying acceptance.”
“Undoubtedly—but we haven’t been very successful so far.”
“Father Andronikos was friendly,” John pointed out.
“And we’ve heard nothing from him since,” Balian pointed out.
“It’s only been four days,” John protested.
“True, but each day in a dungeon is a day in hell,” Balian reminded him, and John was at once contrite for having forgotten about Humphrey of Toron—and the abbot and monks of Antiphonitis.
Chapter Fifteen
The Saint in the Cave
A Cave on Cyprus in an
Unknown Location
HUMPHREY’S TEETH WERE CHATTERING AGAIN. THE chills came irregularly and were interspersed with fever. The fever was better because it made him lethargic, while the chills made him conscious of his misery. He had not had a change of clothes since his capture, and he had been given only a single ragged blanket to supplement his garments. This was inadequate to hold off the cold. Clothes and blanket, furthermore, were equally soiled and caked with mud from the floor of the cave. His hair and beard were encrusted with it as well, because he had nothing on which to rest his head except the rocks or the damp, naked floor.
Humphrey hated the filth even more than he hated the shackles on his wrists and ankles or the near-permanent hunger. When he was in Saracen captivity after Hattin, it had been the offer of a bath from Imad ad-Din that had shattered his desire to resist. He had been so grateful for that bath and the clean clothes. The others had detested him for having “special privileges”; they had even accused him of converting. In fact, Imad ad-Din, despite hinting that someone as intelligent as Humphrey “must see” the error of “polytheism,” had never pressed Humphrey to renounce his faith. For his part, Humphrey had never been seriously tempted, but he had learned much from the Islamic scholar. He had endured the jealousy and seething anger of his fellow Frankish captives for the sake of intelligent conversation with a truly educated man—and for the baths. The hostility of the others had simply made him long to be alone.
Now he knew better.
He had been alone since his capture on Cyprus, except when they deigned to feed and water him. Sometimes it seemed as if they had forgotten him entirely, and the thirst and hunger nearly overpowered him. Or rather, it did overpower him, and he sobbed in self-pity or pleaded frantically for help or screamed wild threats at the solid stone of his cave prison. It didn’t matter what he did. No one saw or heard him.
Now and then, however—irregularly—someone would come to throw moldy bread at him and taunt him as he begged for water. There was no question that they hated him, as the Saracens had not. The Saracens had treated all the noble Frankish prisoners with the respect due a worthy enemy. The Saracens felt themselves superior, and they felt the Christians had been punished by God for their foolish “polytheist” beliefs, so they pitied more than hated their prisoners. Indeed, Imad ad-Din had genuinely liked him, Humphrey told himself.
Not so his current jailers. They wanted him dead. The only question was why they hadn’t already killed him. It couldn’t be because they were holding him for ransom; he was penniless. The only person who might have paid an obol for his release was Aimery de Lusignan, but Aimery hardly had sufficient revenues to pa
y his household, let alone the ransoms for his dead brother’s friends. Besides, Humphrey had no illusions about Aimery liking him. Aimery had never forgiven him for the better treatment he had received from Imad ad-Din. . . .
If his captors knew he had no monetary value, why didn’t they kill him? Humphrey asked himself. Or were they killing him? Just slowly, so it would be as terrible as possible?
This slow death left Humphrey time to reflect upon his life, and that was the greatest torture of all. He would turn thirty this year, if he lived until the Feast of St. John the Baptist. And what had he accomplished? He had surrendered his proud inheritance to his stepfather Reynald de Châtillon before he was sixteen. He had rejected a kingdom at twenty-one. He had lost his mother’s heritage at twenty-two, and lost his wife at twenty-five.
Since then, his life hadn’t been worth living.
So why didn’t he just die? Why didn’t God let him die?
It wasn’t just his anonymous captors who hated him, he reflected: it must be God Himself. But he didn’t understand why God hated him, any more than he understood why his captors hated him. As far as he knew, he had never met any of his captors anywhere or anytime. Nor had he engaged in any violence against the inhabitants of Cyprus. But maybe they didn’t know that?
As for God, however, He knew that Humphrey was guilty of no violence against the Cypriots or anyone else. Why did He want Humphrey to suffer? It wasn’t as if he had ever denied Christ. He couldn’t. Much as he recognized the humanity and intellectual sophistication of men like Imad ad-Din, Salah ad-Din, and his brother al-Adil, he had never been tempted by Islam, simply because it offered him nothing. He could pray five times a day as a Christian. And he could give alms, fast, and go on pilgrimage, too. To the Muslims, both Mohammed and Christ were prophets, and so Humphrey could not see why a pilgrimage to the tomb of one prophet was more valuable than to another. No, Islam offered him nothing at all. At least in Christianity he had the Virgin Mary and the saints.
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