“Yes. Where are you and Tommaso?”
“Across the city, in Tommaso’s house near Saint Anthony’s Gate. It’s smaller than yours.”
Ezzo was talking to the minnesinger. “Is that the one Conrad brought with him?” Frederick said, nudging the Archbishop.
“Him? I think so. He’s called the Freidank.”
“Good. I’m lonely for music.” God, what a collection: an excommunicate, a freethinker, a Greek dancing girl, and seventy Teutonic knights. He stroked Theophano’s hair. Ezzo came toward him, grinning, and behind him the Freidank rose—lean, his blond hair braided like a girl’s with red flowers. The knights hushed expectantly.
“What is the language they speak?” Theophano said.
“German. My father’s native tongue.” When I’m with Germans my father comes out in me. He sprawled in the chair and flung one leg over the arm.
“Sire,” the Freidank called in his clear deep voice. “My Lady.” With a bow. “Gentlemen of the Teutonic Order and gentlemen not of the Teutonic Order.”
Two Cistercians had come in through a side door; they stood with their hands in their sleeves, murmuring. Fulk came up to Ezzo, took him by the arm, and whispered into his ear. His dark smiled flashed.
The Freidank said, “Legend has it that when an emperor enters Jerusalem, the, Golden Age will begin and everybody will be happy again, as they were in the old days.”
The Cistercians and some of the others laughed.
“And who could doubt that our Emperor could not tomorrow enter Jerusalem if he so wished?”
“I can,” Frederick murmured, but nobody heard.
“So we will sing of the new age.”
The man struck a chord and began to sing. Fulk had knelt beside Frederick to ask him something, but he waited, listening. The song was simple enough, and the Freidank played the lute well, but from his first words everybody listened for what he said. “No more dying in the time to come—”
“He’s a heretic,” Fulk whispered.
“Shut up.”
The Freidank walked around, his eyes on the ceiling, singing, and the knights moved quietly out of his way to let him pass, their eyes following him. No more dying, no more wars, and everyone would get his, due “The nobleman now lives at ease, his people slaving on their knees.” No more in the time to come. People always think that. I suppose we couldn’t live if we didn’t. We’re all dying to reach heaven. He turned to Fulk.
“May Ezzo and I go out later?”
In the middle of the Freidank’s song he caught a passing vision of taverns, of whores and dicing and brawls. No, damn it, if I can’t go—
“Yes. Of course.”
“Every man will know his way, no one shall be lost again in the golden time to come.”
How incredibly boring. But we go on trying to impose order on the world, when we’d go mad if we ever did. He caught Tommaso’s eye and mouthed at him to pay the Freidank.
The song ended and everybody applauded; the Freidank went on with a short but pointed piece about the Pope—one of those, apparently, who had lost his way in the time that was. Theophano picked over her plate and fed scraps to a cat that had come in from the rain. The knights punctuated the song with bursts of laughter and shouts. They were drinking without pause, and Frederick knew he was getting drunk. When the Freidank stopped, Tommaso went to him and handed him a purse.
The singer whirled and bowed to Frederick. “The fabled munificence of the Emperor.”
Frederick smiled. “If I didn’t pay you, Freidank, how long would I be Emperor?”
Some of the knights laughed, and someone shouted. “Forever.”
“If you get minnesingers angry, they’ll call you all the names there are, and in the end people believe them. It was the minnesingers who brought Otto the Welf down.” Lashed to ribbons on the stone floor of a cathedral.
The Freidank came nearer. “The minnesingers and a fairy-tale prince from the south?”
“And the Pope. Intending wickedness and performing good. Sing me a love song.”
The Freidank glanced at Theophano and grinned. “I’m not so good at love songs, Sire.”
“Oh? Well—” He hitched himself up and looked around. “Let’s try an experiment. Yusuf?”
Yusuf stepped forward, his white robes swirling around him. The knights murmured again; they weren’t used to friendly Saracens. Frederick took the lute from the Freidank and handed it up to Yusuf. “Play me something,” he said in Arabic.
Hasan said quietly, “Lord, they don’t like us here.”
“Play anyway.”
Yusuf took the lute, glanced warily around, and tuned it. The Freidank said, “This will be interesting.”
“Sit down and listen.”
The tall man grinned and collapsed cross-legged at Frederick’s feet. Yusuf got the lute balanced in his arms. “Lord, you know I’m not used to this kind of—”
The Cistercians came farther into the room, putting their hoods back. Still muttering, the knights nudged each other and frowned. Tommaso and the Archbishop looked distraught. Yusuf began to play a song from the Sicilian hills. In this room, with the smell of beer in the air, with the golden-haired knights and the monks, the rhythms and broken chords of the Arabic music sounded strange and . . . Frederick closed his eyes and saw Sicily. His throat clogged up. Even the muttering stopped, even the soft sound of clothes rustling. Infinitely more complex than the Freidank’s songs, the Arab music pulsed with melancholy. When it stopped, the last notes hung quivering in the air.
“You can sing about a golden age until your throat’s raw,” Frederick said to the Freidank. “Is that beautiful?”
“Yes.” The Freidank looked up and nodded. “I couldn’t play it, but it is.”
“Until everybody else agrees with you, there’s no gold.”
The Freidank’s eyes widened suddenly. Yusuf handed him the lute and went back to the wall, and the knights cleared their throats and talked of something else. Theophano reached for the lute.
“Let me.”
The Freidank said, “If you think that way, Sire, you can’t be on crusade.”
Frederick thought of Fulk and Ezzo cavorting in the local dens of iniquity and didn’t answer.
Theophano said, “Tell them it’s Greek music if they ask.”
She began to play, and the crowd around them shifted back and forth, amazed. Her song sounded completely different from either of the others; Frederick had to make an effort of will to adjust to it. Choppy, rhythmic, the song raced through jangling chords and spills of loose notes. The Freidank laughed and began to clap his hands, and all the knights picked it up. Theophano laughed, swaying back and forth.
“Is she Sicilian?” a Cistercian called.
“Greek,” Frederick said.
The Freidank leaped up and danced. Clapping their hands, the knights grinned and watched him, shouting comments back and forth. Frederick turned and looked at Hasan and winked.
“Well,” Theophano said, putting the lute down. “Was that beautiful?”
Her eyes were snapping, brilliant black. He stretched his arms over his head. “Magnificent.”
“Play another,” the Freidank said, and Frederick translated.
“Oh, no. Tell him I’m much too tired.” She put her head down quickly on Frederick’s knee and straightened up again. While he spoke to the Freidank he saw the envy on the faces of the other men. His body tingled with pride, and he spread his arms out, stretching, to contain himself.
* * *
“They are so charming, these knights,” Theophano said. “They’re very direct.”
“If one of them very directly propositioned you, I’ll very directly have him hung.” He was writing down his agenda for the next day—he had to organize the Syrian army under its new command, which would be a delicate business. In the golden mirror on the wall next to the table he could see her maids undressing her.
“Naturally not. They’re all monks. Besides, they’re shy
.” She stepped out of her gown and walked naked across the room. “Don’t, Maria, I won’t need it.”
The maid with the nightgown stepped back, and the rest of them gathered up her clothes from the floor. Frederick wrote beneath the list of people he’d have to see, “Map of the city.” With Tommaso, and the Archbishop scattered all over town, he’d have to be able to find his way around. The maids left, whispering their good nights.
“Were you angry?” she said. “Because nobody met us at the harbor?”
“Um-humm. But it wouldn’t do any good to yell. I didn’t know you played the lute.” He scattered sand on the paper to dry the ink.
“I don’t—not well. But you’d been so pompous about the Arab music—” She turned, laughing. “It wasn’t magnificent, you know, it was sloppy.” She sat down on the bed.
“Theophano—” I love you. But never say it. “Get in bed and pull the curtains.”
She grinned and rolled in under the covers. The heavy brocade drapes swept closed, and Frederick stood up and pulled on the bellrope near the door. Corso and Giancarlo came in from the next room and started to take off his clothes, and after them, carrying his dressing gown and slippers, the Grand Master and Balian of Sidon walked, arguing softly.
“When do you wish to wake up tomorrow, Sire?” Balian said.
“After dawn. I’m tired.”
Strange pages, donated by his host, went around putting out the lamps, and Giancarlo called, “Leave one lit, now, you.” His stern, childish voice made Frederick grin. Balian went to the door at the sound of a knock, looked out, and let in Guy Embriaco.
“Sire, may I wish you good night.”
“Thank you.” Frederick tossed his hair back with both hands. “Corso, tomorrow I’m taking a bath if I have to stand in the rain.”
“I’ll see to that,” Balian said. He glanced toward the bed and frowned at one of the strange pages. “Turn down His Majesty’s bed, knave.”
Frederick yelped; Corso spun around. “Don’t touch that bed, boy. My Lord Balian, please allow us to follow our own routine.”
“Excuse me.” Balian shrugged, looking puzzled, suddenly understood, and turned bright red. “Excuse me.”
“Never mind.” Frederick turned his back on Corso so that the boy could put on the dressing gown. “Will you and the Lord Guy attend me tomorrow at noon?”
“We’d be very honored to, Sire.” Guy brought over the slippers, and Frederick stuck his feet into them. Giancarlo was hunting for a fresh pen to put beside the bed; he bent down to look under the table, and Frederick couldn’t resist smacking him on the rump. Giancarlo muffled a yell, and the men all laughed.
“Good night, Sire,” Balian said, and headed for the door. Guy followed him out.
“Good night. Hermann, you’ll be at lunch tomorrow too, won’t you?”
“Of course.” The Grand Master smiled. “Have a good night’s sleep, Sire.”
“Thank you. Good night.” He started toward the bed. The pages were collecting his dirty clothes and straightening up the room, and one by one they left, chattering softly. The door shut behind Corso, and Frederick threw off the dressing gown.
Softly the door opened again. “Good night, Sire.”
“Good night, Corso. Sleep well.”
“Tommaso, let me in.”
Behind the servant at the door Tommaso whirled and stared. “My God. Leone, let him in. Hurry.”
The servant stepped back, still scowling, and Frederick barged through the door. Tommaso knelt briefly. “Sire. What are you—”
Leone gasped and fell to his knees. Frederick nudged him with his toe. “You’ve got a suspicious doorman. I’m glad you decided to come by—he wasn’t going to let me in.”
“Leone, go to the kitchens.” With a glance outside, Tommaso himself shut the door. “You came alone? No wonder— We have to be suspicious; Acre is full of burglars. Sire, what the devil are you doing all the way out here?”
“What’s wrong? Can’t I go for a walk?” Frederick went on through the antechamber into the next room. The lamps weren’t lit yet and it was nearly dark. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“You should have sent for me.” Tommaso pulled a bellrope. “I wouldn’t advise walking around Acre, Sire—”
“Nobody knows who I am. It was fun. I came through the bazaar.” He stripped off his cloak, enjoying Tommaso’s flustered efforts to pull himself together. “Everything’s gone wrong today.”
“Nobody knew you. Trailing a Saracen and talking with a Sicilian accent, nobody knew you.” Servants rushed in, and he turned to order them around, to light lamps, to bring something to drink. Frederick sat down and studied the mosaic on the floor. “What went wrong today?”
“Oh—two Franciscans and the Patriarch showed up at noon before we’d done anything at all about the command situation and spent the afternoon telling me I don’t belong here.” The restless, uneasy depression came back to him. I feel wrong. “In very clear terms.”
“Why didn’t you kick them out?”
“The Patriarch and a pair of envoys from the Pope?”
“You’re already excommunicated—he can’t do anything more to you.” Tommaso headed for a chair, remembered he hadn’t been given permission to sit, and looked over. Frederick nodded.
“You’re always telling me I have to be nice to them.”
“Not that nice. What have you decided about the command? Anything?”
“Oh. Hermann and I mulled it over this morning. I think I’ll arrange it so that the orders all come from the Grand Master or you or a council of all the commanders. Where is al-Kamil?”
“At Nablus. With an immense army. But he isn’t doing anything. I’d wager he’ll make a foray sometime soon, just to test you. Whom are you sending to him?”
“One of Piero’s bright young men. Just to conduct messages.”
“Ummm.” Tommaso rubbed his finger along his cheek. “Do you like Acre?”
“I like the bazaar. This one up the street with all the arches over it.” He kicked his shoes off. “The rest of the city makes me nervous. Is it always this closed up and empty?”
“It’s not empty, make no mistake. There are tens of thousands of people in Acre, and every last one of them is looking out for himself—that’s all.”
“Maybe it’s just the way the buildings are.” The high walls, without windows, the towers and the guarded gates. Beyond one wall he’d heard the sound of children playing, but the only children he’d seen in his long walk through Acre had been a few beggars and children of the poor.
“Nobody in Acre talks to anybody unless he knows exactly whose party he belongs to,” Tommaso said. “They conspire over their morning bread and they plot at night while they’re making love.”
“It sounds like Milan.”
“It sounds like any city that isn’t sure it will still be here tomorrow.”
“What about en-Nasr?”
Tommaso shrugged. “He’s in Damascus.”
“Suppose we send greetings to him and to al-Ashraf. Just as a matter of courtesy.”
Tommaso frowned, rubbing his hand absently over the arm of his chair. “Whatever for?”
“Courtesy, as I said. And it might be useful. There’s no sense in ignoring them.”
“If you wish, Sire, of course.”
“I wish. Al-Kamil doesn’t have en-Nasr tightly invested, does he?”
“No. Just pinned down. En-Nasr would be a fool to leave Damascus.”
Frederick flicked a lock of hair out of his eyes. “I’ll send an embassy to him, then.”
“Why?” Tommaso looked aggravated.
“It might be useful. I left Hasan out in your garden—will he be all right?”
“Certainly, if he doesn’t mind the dark. Why didn’t you bring him in?”
“Your doorman was fussing enough over me.”
Tommaso reached for the bellpull again. “Concerning the army, I should think any arrangement whereby they wouldn’t be taking
orders from an excommunicate would be sufficient. After all, you aren’t planning to use the local army, are you?”
“No.” Frederick took a cup of sherbet from a slave and drank. He remembered the towers and the pale brown stone of the walls again. Like a city shut up against him—turn their eyes away when I walk by. Yes, they knew who I was, remember in the bazaar—?
“Not like Palermo, is it?” Tommaso said.
“No.” He finished the sherbet. “It . . . makes me jumpy, this town.”
“Then, be careful. Abu, give His Majesty more sherbet.”
Abu turned with the ewer and Frederick held out his cup. “They’re preaching a sermon against me tomorrow in every church in Acre. They told me that to my face.”
Leone came in again. Tommaso said, “Are you going to Mass? Leone, let the Saracen in the garden inside, please.”
“Have I gone to Mass since you’ve known me?”
“No.”
“I can’t now, anyhow.”
“Then why bother with them?”
Frederick coiled himself up and burst out of the chair. “Tommaso, damn it, I like people to like me.”
“So do I, but not everybody does. Calm down, Sire.”
“I’m trying.”
“Are you hungry? Have some dinner.”
“No. I’m supposed to eat with Guy Embriaco. I’d better get back.”
“Let me give you some horses.” Tommaso rose.
“No, I’ll walk.”
“If you wish. Let me send some of my men with you, at least.”
“No, that’s all right.” He looked around at the room; its furniture and the tapestries and the bits of statuary and glass on the shelves and tables all reminded him of Tommaso. “This is a nice house.”
“It’s pleasant enough. You’ll have to come for dinner sometime. My cook is Sicilian.” Tommaso smiled. He walked beside Frederick into the antechamber where Hasan stood ignoring Leone, his hands folded over his chest, his dagger gleaming in his sash. When Frederick appeared he whirled and reached for the door.
“We have a meeting tomorrow with the Templars and the Hospitallers,” Frederick said. “Which should be a joy equal only to the meeting with the Franciscans. You’d better be there. I’ve got a draft of the letter to al-Kamil for you to read too.”
Antichrist Page 15
