“I’m going to Brindisi tomorrow. Come with me. The court stays here—they’ll all go to Troia in a few days. I’ll tell your brother to bring you to Brindisi.”
“I shouldn’t—they’ll—”
Her head rested against his shoulder, and he looked down at her, surprised. “Know? They already know.” The door from the hall opened, letting in a gust of noise, and shut again: Hasan had come in. “In Brindisi we can work out some things between us.” He slid his hands under her surcoat. “I want you to have some things before I go, too—more attendants, and a palace and a bodyguard.” He straightened up, and they separated—she looked quickly over at her page and the two Saracens. Frederick watched her lashes veil her eyes. “They aren’t looking.”
“No,” she said. “They’re too well trained.”
“I want you to have things,” he said. He pulled her surcoat straight over her shoulders; the edge was embroidered with daisies. “I don’t want you alone while I’m gone.”
“I don’t want you gone.” She bit her lip. All the people near them made her jittery, and she stole looks at them from beneath her lashes. He grinned.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“It makes me ashamed,” she said, in a tiny voice.
He kissed her forehead. “Astorre, attend her. I’ll tell your brother to bring you to Brindisi. Don’t worry. I love you, Bianca, don’t worry.”
That made it all better, of course. She smiled up at him and went out the door behind the throne, Astorre trailing her. He shrugged and turned to Hasan.
“Women. How can they all be so alike, and yet one enchants me and another only bores me?”
Hasan shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps when you know them better you’ll find out the differences, Lord.”
“I know them well enough to know I’ll never know them.” He hunched his shoulders, looking around the bright room. “Bring me a chair, will you?”
Tomorrow.
He rode along the beach, his Saracens all around him, studying the ships in the harbor. Heads bobbed in the water around them—the local children begging from the crews on board. The slaves were loaded, all the baggage—by tomorrow the galleys would stink like floating coffins. Osiris’ coffin, that the cypress saved. The falcon screeched on his wrist.
“Hasan.”
Hasan galloped up to his side, and Frederick pointed to the flagship. “Keep a watch on her tonight, from the shore. In case.”
“Yes, Lord.”
He turned his horse and let it walk slowly over the wet sand, just below the ridge of broken shells and seaweed that marked the high-tide line. This time he couldn’t turn back, this time he had to go through with it. This time I have to take it all. The memory of Yolande dead came back to him. He’d thought he’d buried her out of sight in Bianca, but now he was sailing to her homeland, and she rose up like a ghost after him.
The sun was setting, and the water gleamed dull gold and orange. Lights appeared on the ships. This will prove something, once and for all. Yes. Suddenly he felt better; he reined in and stared out to sea. If I can win this one, then . . . Like a child: if I see a white horse in the market I’ll have good luck. But everybody else will believe it, even if I don’t. Grant it, grant it, O Lord.
Over the running sea the darkness flowed like oil. Stars burned in the eastern sky. He kept his back to the sunset, and deep in his heart a fierce pleasure and anticipation stirred.
Frederick pulled back the curtain into his servants’ cabin, caught a whiff of vomit, and backed hastily away. The quick glance had shown him Corso, Giancarlo, Marco and Felix all one throbbing knot of green faces and glazed eyes. Sea voyages affected some people that way. He took his own stomach under consideration and appreciated its stability. The only trouble was that now he’d have to dress himself.
He poked around the cabin, ignoring the groans and prayers seeping through the curtain. The galley lurched wildly along a wave and he had to grab for a beam to keep from falling. In the cubicle one of the boys emitted a choked scream. For an instant, until the ship righted itself, he understood. Fresh air and something to eat— that was what he needed. He threw back the lid of a chest full of clothes and pulled out underwear, hose and a linen shirt.
Not in nearly thirty years had he dressed himself completely. It gave him a feeling of freedom, like climbing out the palace window on a rope made of bell pulls and curtains and escaping through the back gate into the city. He put on the underwear and stood up, holding out the hose, trying to figure out how to get in, and laughed.
“Sire.”
“What do you want?” He found the empty hose vastly entertaining; he jiggled them to make them dance. Corso whimpered again.
“I’m dying. Please help me.”
“You’re not dying, you’re seasick. You’ll get over it.” Sitting down, he pulled on the hose. Corso crept into the cabin and curled up at his feet, sobbing.
“I’m dying. I’m dying.”
“Don’t be a crybaby.” He put on the shirt, threw a belt around his waist, and picked Corso up like a puppy under one arm. “Come up on deck. You’ll feel much better.”
Corso wept bitterly. Frederick shifted his weight onto one hip, carried him out the low doorway, and climbed the ladder to the deck.
Before him the great gilt-railed poop deck rose like a castle keep; the Captain and Enrico and the helmsman stood there, watching him. Overhead the striped sail curved out, driving the ship through the water. He took a breath so deep of the air rushing past him it cracked his ribs. He hadn’t realized how musty the cabin was. The free crew shouted back and forth from the poop deck to the foredeck, and the rigging groaned. He dumped Corso on the deck and trotted toward the rail. Halfway there, he saw Corso lurch to his feet and stagger toward the windward side, and he went back to steer him over to the lee rail.
“Over here. Always throw up with the wind.” He left the boy doubled over the rail, moved down a little, and climbed into the rigging to look at the other ships.
The little fleet spread toward the coast—he could just barely see blue land in the distance. All the sails were spread, red and green, yellow stripes on black. He thought, I could land on that coast and seize towns, rob all the people there. The wind streaming through his hair delighted him. He jumped down to the deck and ran up toward the poop, took the steps three at a time, and bounced to a stop in front of Enrico da Malta.
The Captain and another officer there went to their knees; the helmsman had to strain to keep hold of the tiller. Behind them Enrico bowed, his back to the carved rail.
“Sail the ship,” Frederick said to the Captain. “Forget I’m here.” He looked over his shoulder toward the bow, admiring the way his legs adjusted to the roll of the ship.
“Enrico, I should take sea voyages more often.”
“Naturally you’re thriving,” the Admiral said. “I spent half the morning flat on my gut with my head over a bucket, and every other member of your staff is similarly indisposed.”
“They’ll get over it.” Frederick leaned over the rail to look at the water boiling away in their wake. “Do you suppose we could fish from here?”
“Probably, Sire.”
“Enrico, were you really sick? You’re the Admiral.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself. I see your attendants are all down.” He eyed Frederick’s shirt, still unlaced.
Frederick lunged grinning against the rail and scratched his chest through the gap in his shirt. “Do I look like a sailor?”
“You look like a street tough, Sire.”
Frederick laughed. The galley corkscrewed down a trough, took a wave out of rhythm, and jerked. Enrico paled. Avoiding Frederick’s eyes, he clenched his teeth and grabbed for the railing.
“I’m disappointed in you, Enrico. Truly disappointed.”
“I haven’t been to sea in—” The ship pitched violently across another wave and slithered diagonally into the trough, and Enrico groaned and vomited over the stern. Frederick
made a face.
Corso was standing up, one hand still on the rail, looking into the rigging above his head. Frederick started toward the forward rail of the poop deck, nearly lost his footing, and stood still a moment, trying to get the rhythm of the ship’s roll into his stride. The sailors all around the deck were grinning behind their hands. He walked with his feet apart, which helped, and leaned over the rail to call down to Corso.
“Are you hungry?”
Corso looked up, and one hand rose to his stomach. “N-no.” He bit his lip.
“You’d better eat something.” He turned to the Captain. “Have some bread and meat brought up here. And a light wine.”
The Captain bellowed unintelligibly into the waist. Corso was mouthing something. Frederick gestured to him to come up on the poop deck, and after a moment the boy staggered gamely to the ladder and climbed it.
“I’m sorry, Sire,” he said, with a little bow. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Ssssh. Keep busy. Stop thinking about how wretched you are. Enrico, will you eat with me?”
Enrico turned and nodded, biting his lips. Corso began to look queasy again, and Frederick backed away from him to give him running room.
The free crew was pulling back the great hatch covers that roofed the slave deck. Frederick watched them, enjoying the crisp, deft way they worked. The stench of the slaves reached his nose, and he started breathing through his mouth. All those men down there, living in their own sweat and filth. I wouldn’t like it. But they’re criminals, most of them. And Moors. He studied the faces of the slaves near enough to be seen; they lolled around on their benches, moving their arms and legs as much as the chains would allow. Their shoulders and backs and arms were misshapen with muscle, and above their wild beards their eyes reminded him of the eyes of plow horses. He looked quickly away, embarrassed. He wondered what he’d expected—anger, ferocity, resentment. The food had been brought up and he shooed away the men awkwardly trying to set out the plates, took a loaf of bread and a huge chunk of salt beef, and went to the taffrail to eat.
The gulls no longer followed them, but schools of fish rippled the water off to the south. Dolphins, he thought. He loved dolphins. Once someone had sent him a small antique statue of a dolphin. But no smooth finned back broke the ruffled water, and when he saw the pelicans diving he knew these were little fish.
“Wine, Sire?”
“Oh. Yes.” He chewed a mouthful of bread, took the bottle from the Admiral, and gulped. The man on the tiller caught his eye—the easy way he slackened his weight against the long bar. “Is that hard?”
The Admiral shrugged. “It’s a knack. The wind varies more than you’d think.”
“Can I try it?”
“Sure.” Enrico swung to the Captain, who was also Genoese, and said, “The Emperor desires to steer.”
“Whatever he wants,” the Captain said. Frederick grinned at him and went to the tiller.
“Show me how.”
The helmsman turned white under his tan. His eyes flew to Enrico, who said, “Show him. Don’t worry, nothing will happen.”
“Aye, aye.” The sailor refused to meet Frederick’s eyes. “Just hold it and when the wind shifts you have to keep her so the sail draws.”
“Wonderful,” Frederick said. He put his hand on the tiller. “If you’d told me I’d have to learn a new language, Enrico—”
The sailor let go of the bar, and it almost swung out of Frederick’s hands. He whistled, grabbed a tight hold, and used his weight against it. From the way the sailor had handled it he’d thought it passive, but it moved like a stiff snake, jumping in his fists. He glanced up at the sail and over the bow, trying to find something to aim at. Enrico came up behind him.
“Watch the sail. When it starts to luff—when it starts to snap, you’re losing the wind. Bring her up. Toward you. Good, hold her—meet her, you’re falling off. That’s it.”
Frederick laughed. The ship felt alive, surging. Enrico said, “Can you feel the wind? It’s hard—when you have more experience you steer by the feel of the wind on your cheek. See the yarn on the rigging there? Try to keep it in the same position all the time, it shows where the wind is.”
“No wonder you like to sail.” He was getting used to the way the stick moved in his hands; it was a question of balance.
“It’s more fun in a small boat,” Enrico said. “Maybe on Cyprus—”
Damn him. “Don’t talk to me about Cyprus.” He glanced from the yarn on the rigging to the sail and back to the yarn. “How am I doing?”
“Well. Very well, in fact.”
“I’m part Norman. Pirates, all of them.” The sail didn’t look taut, and he drew the stick in toward his body until the striped canvas started to snap and let it off a little. Enrico was staring at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. That’s the way you’re supposed to do it. Do you want more wine?”
“Yes. Please.”
The sailor started forward to take the tiller back, but Frederick waved him away. The Captain drifted over.
“Look at the wake, Rico.”
Enrico, a bottle in one hand, glanced over the taffrail. “Why do you think he’s Emperor, because he’s anything like the rest of us?”
Frederick looked back over the stern. The wake of the ship stretched off straight to the horizon. His chest swelled with pride. The stick leaped in his hands and he had to adjust quickly; he overcompensated and had to push the tiller away from him. Frowning, he took the bottle, braced the tiller against his hip and drank.
“Enrico. I want to learn how to rig the sail and—” He could think of nothing else. “Everything.”
Enrico smiled. “Pull an oar.”
Frederick chewed his lip. He glanced toward the open hold, thought of the stink and the sullen brutal faces of the slaves, and nodded. “Yes. Good idea.”
“Sire, you—”
“I gave you an order. Where’s my page? Corso?”
Corso jogged up, looking livelier than before.
“I want fish for dinner. Fish over the side. This beef is rotten.”
“Sailors’ meat,” Enrico said. “Sailors won’t eat fish.”
“Hunh.”
Up on the masthead his personal banner flew, the Hohenstaufen eagles; from the mastheads of all the other galleys flew the pennant of the Sicilian fleet. But each of the others had its own captain and its own crew, independent of this. He tossed his hair back out of his eyes. I can pretend I’m . . . The glistening blue sea, the pale blue sky and the bright sun brought all his pleasure to the surface again; he drew a deep breath, and with the tiller wedged against his thigh peeled off his shirt. If any of the other galleys got close enough to see a red-headed man at the tiller, no one would guess who it was. The slaves at the oars wore only loincloths. Probably it was easier to row without sleeves to bind their arms. He wondered if he’d be able to pull an oar—if the slaves would resent it. Corso was trailing a line over the stern, talking happily to a sailor splicing a line. The sun beat on Frederick’s chest and shoulders; his skin under his long hair grew sweaty. He was going to turn red as a poppy. He wondered what Bianca would think, if she could see him, half naked, steering a galley through the sea to Cyprus.
“Enrico—”
“No. I refuse. Absolutely.”
Frederick took two steps around the tiny cabin, bent to keep from knocking his head on the beams. “Enrico, do you remember when—”
“You just might as well give up, because I’m not going to—”
“—they brought you in to me, oh, years ago, all tied up and bloody—”
“Never. Never, absolutely.”
“—and I said I could either hang you or make you the Admiral, and you said you’d much rather be the Admiral?”
“This was your idea. You go through with it. Don’t—”
“Enrico, how would you like to hang?”
The Admiral put his big fists on the table and glared. “If you hung m
e, Genoa would go to war with you, you’d lose Malta, and half your fleet would rebel.”
“I could always get the Pisans. And you’d be dead, Enrico.”
Enrico leaned back. “You’re bluffing.”
Frederick grinned.
“What do you want to do this for at all, anyhow? Go down there, in that filthy hold and rug on an oar—I’ve done that, it’s no fun.”
Frederick leaned forward. “But it will be fun, Enrico, you’ll see—it’ll be exciting and lots of fun. Now, come on. Please?”
“Jesus.” Enrico stared at him. His shoulders hunched. “You and me and who else?”
“Angelo. I talked him into it this morning, while he was taking his trick at the tiller.”
“Angelo? He’s nothing but a common seaman. The least we ought to—This is ridiculous.” Enrico looked away and scrubbed his chin with his fingers. “How long?”
“Just until we get tired. I just want to see what it’s like.”
“How am I going to command respect if I’m down there—”
“You’ll be down there with me, Enrico. Please?”
“Oh, God. All right. But as soon as we get bored or tired, that’s it.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Enrico yelped. “Now?”
“Naturally. It’s flat calm and they’ve been rowing all day. Come on.”
Frederick bounded out the door onto the deck. The sunlight blinded him a moment—it was blistering hot and windless, and his sunburn began to ache again. His nose was peeling. Enrico came out, grumbling, and Frederick turned and grinned at him and went on down to the Captain, who was shouting to the man in the lookout on top of the mast.
“Captain,” Frederick said, “we’re going down there to row.”
The Captain wheeled, bowed, and licked his lips. “Now?”
“That’s what I said,” Enrico said. He turned and bellowed for Angelo, who came down from the poop deck. From the hold came the monotonous groan and rasp of the oars. Frederick could smell the slaves from here.
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