Antichrist

by Cecelia Holland

  “Did you enjoy your picnic?” the Archbishop said. “He’s agreed to the terms, and it’s time for the kiss of peace.”

  Bohemund said, “Umm—Your Majesty, when do we, unh, take ship for Syria?”

  “As soon as possible, my Lord, just take it easy.”

  “Well, I really, unh, have to get back—pressing business in my, unh, councils—”

  “Yes. I know. You’ve been telling me—” Frederick brushed past him into the tent, gritting his teeth. In the dim light he saw nothing for a moment, but he heard the rustle of clothes and the creak of chairs: everybody had stood up to greet him. He made a gesture. “Sit, please.” His eyes cleared and he saw John d’Ibelin standing in front of a torch standard.

  “Your Majesty,” John said coldly.

  Frederick eyed him, looked around and saw Balian. Through the door behind him came Guy Embriaco and a pack of his followers. The tent was filling up. Frederick nodded to John and went over to one side of the tent; his people were gathering there. The Archbishop and Tommaso simultaneously reached for the same chair for Frederick.

  “Never mind, I’ll stand.” His hands were dirty and he rubbed them absently together.

  Amalric Barlais rushed in, blinking to clear his eyes, and John drew himself up and glared. Frederick glanced around; Bohemund was in one corner, keeping neutral and drinking wine, and a Templar sent along as the observer of the order stood square in the middle of John’s section. The rumble of conversation filled the tent. Most of the men had come straight from lounging around the camp, so everything looked too casual and a little sloppy. Frederick shrugged out of his light cloak and let it drop. A page hustled over to take it away.

  Balian stepped out into the middle of the tent. “Is everybody here who should be?”

  “Yes,” Guy Embriaco said. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Frederick said, “My lord the Grand Master has gone to bring Lord John’s sons. We’d better wait for him.” He picked up a cup from a bright red table in front of him; it was empty. Half a cup of wine and half a cup of water—He held the cup out to one side, not bothering to look, and someone poured him wine. Ezzo and Fulk came in, filthy from hunting.

  Suddenly Bohemund rushed out of his quiet corner into the middle of John’s supporters. Guy Embriaco, behind Frederick, murmured, “You fool, Prince.” Somebody else laughed—over on John’s side of the tent. Well over two-thirds of the people massed under the swaying silk walls stood near John. Frederick glumly sipped his wine. He’d spent too much time already on Cyprus, quibbling over this small thing. Through the door John’s two sons walked, smiling, went straight to their father, and knelt. John put one hand on each bent head; Frederick rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. The next tableau would be mother and child surrounded by cherubs. Taking off his cloak, the Grand Master moved up, beside him.

  Balian said, “We’ll start now, I think. You all know what has led to this—the accusations against John d’Ibelin, Lord of Beirut, formerly bailli of Cyprus—”

  Immediately they were all murmuring, craning to look at John and at Frederick; John’s sons stood up, their faces tight. Bohemund crept toward the periphery of John’s circle. Frederick looked smiling into his wine cup. It all winds up the same in the end. Balian cleared his throat.

  “In Limassol, Lord John gave hostages to His Majesty Frederick, Emperor of the West, in token of his good faith until the charges could be investigated. In Nicosia, the Archbishop Berardo of Palermo investigated the records and found them to be in order. So the hostages are to be returned, and the charges dropped. In addition, King Henri of Cyprus will formally renew his pledge of fealty to the Emperor, and with him all of Cyprus will swear its loyalty. Queen Alice remains the Regent during the King’s minority.”

  Bohemund was inching steadily toward Frederick’s side of the tent.

  “The Emperor,” Balian said, “will appoint a new bailli, and Lord John will appear before the High Court of Jerusalem as soon as practical to defend his right to the fief of Beirut.”

  “How did you get him to accept that?” Tommaso whispered.

  “We promised him he’ll keep it,” Frederick said. “But I wanted to make sure he comes to Syria with us.”

  Smiling, Balian held out his hands, one to John, one to Frederick, and they both advanced. John looked sour. With his right hand in Balian’s, Frederick said, “Come, come, cousin. It’s all for the best.”

  John’s brow lowered over his nose. “You are arrogant, for such a young man.”

  “Ssssh.” Balian put their hands together. “Greet each other as friends; your dispute has ended.”

  Stiffly, staring over one another’s shoulder, they shook hands. Everybody in the packed tent was watching, rapt. With his hands on John’s shoulders, Frederick leaned forward and pressed his cheek to the old man’s—this was stupid, nothing was over. He could not believe anyone would think it was. They stepped apart; John’s angry face still stared beyond him, shutting him out. Frederick looked curiously at him, wondering what he was thinking—if he was thinking at all, or just feeling. Balian called the others to witness and they answered with the formula phrases. Normally a priest would have said something over them but with Frederick excommunicated they’d dispensed with it, although John had some priests with him. Frederick backed up until he stood on his side of the tent again. What if he regrets it too? How do we really settle it?

  “We will sail from Famagusta as soon as we can get there. Most of you, I know, are coming to Acre. It won’t be necessary for anyone who has sworn an oath of fealty to King Henri to renew it in person to me; the King’s pledge binds you. Thank you.”

  They all bowed, and started out. Now that was over, he knew that he’d let his first uncertainty in a place full of enemies stampede him into the mistake at Limassol; he’d have to watch out for that in Syria. Cyprus was only a foretaste. Bohemund was shifting around near the door, making sure Frederick saw him among his party.

  “Prince Bohemund,” Frederick said, loudly enough for everybody to hear him, and smiling went up to Bohemund and put one hand on his shoulder. “You’ve never sworn fealty to me for Antioch, have you?”

  Bohemund’s face turned to wax. His mouth opened slightly, shut again, and he swallowed. Frederick’s smile widened into a grin, and with a laugh he went outside.

  Sicilian chatelains in all the castles, Amalric Barlais as bailli, the King sworn personally into your service—you’ll scare them to death,” the Archbishop said. “It all worked out fairly well, but for God’s sake don’t panic them.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “Oh, sure,” Tommaso said. “Telling Bohemund in front of everybody to swear Antioch over to you. Not scaring them a bit.” He leaned back and glared out the porthole into the streaming rain.

  “It was a joke. He was making me nervous.”

  The Archbishop laughed. He swung his feet up onto a stool and beckoned to Corso to serve Frederick again. The rain drummed on the hull of the ship; through the open portholes came the gurgle of the sea in their wake. Frederick spread honey onto the last of the corn cakes.

  “Most people don’t have your sense of humor,” Tommaso said. “They took it as a sign of unlimited ambition. The Empire has never controlled Antioch.”

  “Bohemund the First was a tenant of the King of Sicily. There’s a precedent.” He took a cup from Corso and ate the honey cake, washing it down with sips of light wine.

  “Precedent,” Tommaso said. “You’re known to interpret precedent in an original fashion. Bohemund the First was enfeoffed of Taranto; he held Antioch of nobody. God, this voyage is driving me crazy.”

  “I know.” They were packed into the galleys like cattle, and everybody was whining. Bohemund had excused himself from the Crusade for pressing medical reasons, and his people had spread the rumor around Famagusta that he’d suffered a complete collapse. Tommaso was probably right about his comment to Bohemund alarming the other barons.

  “They’re upset e
nough about the excommunication,” Tommaso said. “As for taking a Saracen bodyguard to the Holy Land—”

  Frederick put his knife down. “Tommaso, if you don’t stop complaining I’m going to put you on another ship. Now, shut up.”

  Tommaso flushed and looked away, and the Archbishop immediately became fascinated by the far wall. Corso had fallen asleep in his corner—this voyage, he hadn’t gotten seasick at all, but the rain made him morose. Just the other side of this partition Theophano would be in bed, sleeping or combing her hair, and Frederick thought of going in there and splitting the rest of the hashish with her.

  “What’s the age of majority on Cyprus?”

  “Fifteen,” Tommaso said.

  “And Henri is eight?”

  Rain blew in the porthole, and Tommaso swung the window closed. “Yes. In Jerusalem the age is twenty-five.”

  “How difficult would it be to apply that in Cyprus?”

  “Not terribly. Henri is too mild to protest, and while his mother is Regent, you’d have no trouble from that direction. Besides, you’ve just made yourself the actual ruler of the kingdom.”

  “I was just wondering how long I’d have to work with it.”

  “Seventeen years. Long enough.”

  “No,” Frederick said. He picked up his knife and another corn cake.

  The Archbishop said, “It took you much less than that in Sicily. And you started with chaos.”

  “That was why it took less time. Everybody was fighting everybody else and the whole structure had broken down. Besides, I had Norman laws. In Cyprus we’d have to break everything down first, get rid of the French law, work through the King—” He put the cake down again. “No chance.”

  “You’d have less of a chance in Jerusalem. And at least Cyprus would be useful to you,” Tommaso said.

  “So would Milan. I’ve been working on Milan for years and gotten absolutely nowhere.”

  The Archbishop laughed and folded himself more comfortably into his chair. “The Milanese don’t believe in laws.”

  “All the Milanese are natural rebels.”

  But Cyprus would be . . . good to have. He began to think of ways to circumvent the barons. Having his own men in as chatelains in the castles started it, but the machinery necessary to rule through a regency slowed everything down. Try it, at least. They hated him, though. Maybe for the rest of the Crusade he’d soothe them. The rain clattered on the porthole; in two days they would be in Acre.

  Theophano in the next cabin . . . He shut his eyes. They could lie there all day long, dreaming, entwined in each other’s arms and legs. Sitting here waiting was sending him wild. Theophano—her long, tilted eyes. What if she doesn’t want me as much as I want her? The Archbishop and Tommaso sat with their knees nearly touching, cramped in the tiny cabin, trying to give him enough room to stretch out. They are like my hands, they do as I will. Sometimes. Remember in Capua when we spent three days working out the wording of that one law? Nobody thought it would work, but of course it did, it was the only way. To rule everybody, not only the nobles but everyone in Sicily. Theophano: “That riddle is impossible. Why are your riddles always geometry in disguise?” Most people never realize that. I wish there was no one else on board—I could play sailor. He stood up, and Tommaso and the Archbishop stumbled all over each other, rising.

  “I’m going back to bed. Make sure I’m up for dinner, will you?”

  * * *

  The rain drizzled down over Acre, turning everything gray. Frederick turned toward the Grand Master. “I thought it never rained out here.”

  “It doesn’t,” the old man said stiffly. “This is unusual.”

  The horses splashed through puddles in the streets, past the blank walls of stone buildings. No crowds, no cheering welcome; messengers from the Pope had arrived weeks before and preached in all the churches. This Emperor is Antichrist. Take your choice of legends, because one will surely fit. The Grand Master was upset about the lack of a reception, but Frederick was not. He twisted to look back at the train following him and saw the litter that carried Theophano, dripping and bedraggled, the tassle bleeding red dye all over the light blue sides. Hasan moved his mare a little closer to keep the umbrella over Frederick’s head.

  “It’s so empty,” Ayub said in Arabic.

  “Be quiet,” Hasan said.

  Ahead of them knights in even rows rode with their lances at salute, just as if there were cheering crowds on either side, and behind them the barons wore their showy cloaks and hoods. Nobody spoke. The hollow clopping of the horses’ hoofs boomed off the stone walls all around them. Behind the shutters, probably, the people were watching, all madly excited. Is this any way to enter a town, like a defeated man sneaking back to the safety of home? They passed under an archway; pigeons cooed in the dark above his head. Most of the barons had gone quickly off to their town houses when they realized there would be no thrilling ceremony.

  They rode slowly through an empty bazaar, the stalls closed up against the rain and the Emperor. Bits of garbage covered the wide square, and in the middle a low circular well overflowed into a rushing gutter. When they turned down a side street, most of the people behind him went off somewhere else. No one left in the train now except his servants and personal friends and bodyguard. Under a round of stone projecting from a shuttered church a boy crouched, ragged, his black hair hanging in his eyes; he watched them go by with a shrewd, old look on his face. Beggar. Living in the streets turns them old fast. I should know. Me, like that, once, long ago: Markwald was entering—triumphal entry into Palermo—and I sneaked out to watch. They say Jerusalem is full of beggars. I wonder what Theophano is thinking.

  Brindisi and Barletta after the Children’s Crusade had swarmed with children younger than that, but their faces hadn’t been shrewd and old. Lost. The sea was supposed to open up and let us pass to Jerusalem. Dry shod, and we were to redeem the world. All the little children, going to redeem the world and rescue Jerusalem. The boy was gone; they rode past houses trimmed with carvings and boxes of flowers, red and purple blotches against the dank, streaming stone. I hate Crusades.

  “Here, Sire.”

  They rode in through an iron gate, and from the house inside the wall people spilled, laughing, waving their arms. Frederick sucked in his breath. These were all Germans, servants of the Teutonic Order, knights and lay brothers. They laughed and crowded around them, handing them fistfuls of flowers, embracing the knights. The Grand Master dismounted and held Frederick’s horse; a cluster of knights and monks, all smiling, stood just behind him, looking from the Grand Master to Frederick and back.

  “Sire—”

  When he turned from the horse, they all knelt, and a cheer rose in German. Tonunaso was smiling, the Archbishop was laughing out loud. Frederick spread his arms. “Not here, not in the wet. Let’s go inside.”

  The knights rose and shouted, “Long live the Emperor.” Inside, lights showed, and they pushed toward the door. Hands touched him, shyly, and when he looked around they hid themselves behind other men, all grinning. He laughed and reached out to squeeze the Grand Master’s shoulder. All around him the patter of German voices drowned the rain. They flooded into a huge room, steaming warm and stinking of wet wool. The smell of meat cooking, of fresh bread and—he sniffed hard. “Beer.” The Grand Master turned and grinned, nodding.

  Frederick flung off his cloak. Conrad of Hohenlohe, who had come with him but always on another ship, rushed up with a knight in tow: “Sire, do you remember my cousin Richard?” Behind him the others pushed and shoved, trying to get near him. Their voices rose sharply.

  “Sire.” The Grand Master handed him a tankard of beer. “You didn’t expect a small chip of Swabia out here, did you? Come over here and sit and we’ll try to make these children observe some kind of order.” He turned to bellow at a cook. Hasan and Ayub were standing at Frederick’s elbows, looking nervous, and some of the knights were staring openmouthed at them. Frederick kept peering over shoulders
and around heads and sniffing the air—everything reminded him of a German castle kitchen, even the wooden benches, the neat arrangement of iron forks and spoons on the wall. He let the Grand Master take him to a chair and sat down. Theophano came into the room.

  She paused a moment, looking around, smiling, and in that moment all the knights saw her and stopped talking and looked. There probably hadn’t been a woman in this building since . . . Frederick stood up. She saw him and walked through the pack of staring men as if she had always lived there, pulled a stool up to the side of his chair, and sat down at his feet, grinning up at him. The Saracens rushed up to range themselves against the wall behind him.

  The room twitched back to life. Frederick drank his beer and gave the tankard to someone to fill up again. Bending, he pulled Theophano’s hair and whispered, “Remind me someday to make you an empress.”

  She laughed. “Why?”

  They were bringing out food, and everybody was drinking. Two knights came up and knelt, their eyes bright. “Your Majesty, do you remember us?”

  “You were in Aachen,” Frederick said. “During the coronation.”

  They beamed; one put out his hand impulsively, and Frederick shook it. Around their necks they wore gold crosses on chains. Yes—brothers. He said something, and they blushed, pleased that he’d remembered them, that he’d spoken to them. The tankard came back, brimming with beer, and he sipped it. Theophano laid her hand surreptitiously on his knee. Servants brought them wooden plates of meat and bread.

  Frederick was the only man sitting down—the rest of them stood, talked, roamed around, laughed, and gestured, plates in their hands, spilling beer all over the stone floor. Conrad of Hohenlohe was greeting everybody with bearhugs and kisses—many of his friends were here, and they hadn’t met for years. In the corner a minnesinger tuned his lute.

  The Archbishop came up. “God, I’m drunk already. You’re staying in the house next door, do you know that, Sire?”