“Good.” Tommaso bowed. “Be careful.”
“Yes. I will. Come along, Hasan.”
Tommaso called, “Oh, by the way, I’m going to introduce you to a Jew here who’s fond of mathematics.”
Frederick turned and grinned. “Give me something to do? Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He walked out into the garden, Hasan behind him. The sweet odors of the Syrian flowers reached him. I’m not used to it, that’s all, that’s why I feel so . . . In Palermo, in Barletta and Brindisi and Capua he could walk alone into the worst quarters and never worry. He stood while Hasan unhooked the gate and swung it open.
“The evenings are warm here, at least,” Hasan said.
“Now that it’s stopped raining.”
They went down the dark street, walking close to the wall. In the buildings opposite, lights showed, but most people would be in bed now that it was dark. He looked up at the sky, at the wash of stars.
“Maybe Dawud will be with al-Kamil when we meet him.”
Hasan nodded. “It would be good to see the Lord Fakhr-ad-Din again.”
Why do I get along better with Saracens than anybody else? He and Fakhr-ad-Din had spent hours talking about nothing, laughing and solving the problems of the world and comparing notes on astrology and philosophy and medicine in their different countries. Up ahead a street lamp shone, marking the cross street. His feet slipped on the uneven cobblestones and he shortened stride.
“They never come out into the street here.” Hasan said.
They certainly don’t. He had that feeling again, that they were all watching from behind their shutters. Turning the corner, he tried to relax. None of the street lights on this street were burning.
“Lord—”
“I see.” He stopped. Two men had appeared halfway down the street. They’d been standing in a doorway, but now they started up toward him. “What’s behind us?”
Hasan’s robes shuffled together. “Two more.” He sounded calm. “Do you have a knife?”
“Yes”
It wasn’t likely these were thieves. He shifted his feet apart and let his arms hang loosely by his sides, watching the two men coming toward him. They separated, one sliding in close to the wall on Frederick’s left hand, the other out in the middle of the street. Hasan whispered a prayer in Arabic.
“Stand still,” Frederick called. “Who are you?”
The man next to the wall plunged forward. Just behind Frederick, Hasan leaped violently to meet the other two, and somebody yelped. The fourth man, who looked fat, was charging in from the middle of the street. Frederick drew his dagger and rushed to meet the man near the wall. In the man’s hands a long knife flashed blue. He drew his arm back and ran straight for Frederick, and Frederick slashed with his dagger, caught that long blade, and struck it aside. The man ran into him so hard they both left their feet.
Falling, he twisted, hitting the cobblestones with his hip and shoulder instead of his head, and brought his dagger back up. The other one, the fat one, was racing in. Arms clutched him, pinning him down. He wrenched his arm free and grabbed the dagger out of his other hand and stabbed, and the tip skidded off metal. They were wearing mail. He looked up and saw the fat one with a sword drawn back, his teeth bared, right over him.
The man hanging onto him lunged, throwing Frederick hard against the wall; he kicked out, and the man grunted. The fat one with the sword was dancing around, trying to find a clear angle. Frederick dropped his dagger and grabbed the wrist of the man beside him and kicked again. A fist crashed into his side and the heavy body twisted. The sword slashed down—he flung himself to one side, and sparks flew from the wall. Hasan—
Something sharp glided over his hand; he clutched. It was the long knife. He got to his knees, punching and clawing at the other man, who slugged and clawed back—in the dark they couldn’t see to hit anything. The fat one was yelling and dancing around again, hunting an opening. Frederick’s side hurt with each breath. He lifted the long knife and ran it into the face of the man he was fighting. The blade rasped over bone and sank abruptly deep, deep into flesh. With a screech the man shrank back, and the knife locked in bone and flew out of Frederick’s hand. He dove sideways just before the sword clanged on the stone where he had been.
Leaping up, he put the wall to his back and stared around. Two of them—Hasan was down, a white puddle on the street, and another dead man out there near him. The man he’d knifed screamed again. The two men facing him started in, cautious, their knives and swords held low.
His muscles gathered, and his breath hissed through his teeth. Sliding his feet, he took a step down the wall. Immediately they attacked him, both at once. He thrust out his hands and a dagger ripped along his forearm, but he got a grip on the man nearer him and flung him sideways into the other. Old tricks boiled up into his memory. These weren’t street fighters he could tell that by the way they fought. He scurried a little farther down the wall before they got sorted out and raced in again.
Remember— He kicked out, crouched over, and charged at the thin man. When he shifted to meet him, the knife bright in his hand, Frederick whirled and got his hands on his arm and wrenched him hard over his hip into the wall. The fat one closed in on him, and he feinted to draw him off, and dodged the other’s knife and knocked him flat with his fist. The first grappled with him and Frederick brought his knee up into the man’s crotch. With a scream like a woman’s he fell backward.
The fat one was getting to his feet, his sword still in his hand. Frederick glanced around for a knife, a sword, a dagger; there was nothing in sight but a man clutching himself and moaning and another staggering to his feet. He ran over and jumped on the thin man far down the wall. The fat one lifted his sword and waded in.
The sword was easy to dodge, but Frederick’s breath came in rasps and his forearm was turning numb. He ducked under a wild swing of the sword and ran down the street. Footsteps pelted after him—more than one set. I thought they’d all— He slipped and fell, rolling over and scraping his face and hands on the stones. They’re coming, they’re coming, get up. Just lie here and— He forced himself to his hands and knees. A kick caught him in the ribs and knocked him rolling again. They had him, they were going to— He bounced up and ran, headed for the corner, for Tommaso’s house. Suddenly one of the men behind him shouted a warning, and the footsteps stopped. Frederick turned his head to look back and saw them running away and before he could stop himself ran headlong into a horse.
“What’s going on here?”
He hung onto the horse’s mane, keeping himself on his feet and fighting to get his breath. They spoke Syrian French, whoever they were—the watch, probably. His body started to tremble, and he pressed his face to the horse’s neck and shuddered. The horse moved, dragging him. They were yelling somewhere.
“There’s a dead Arab here.”
He swallowed.
Somebody grabbed him by the shoulders, and he kicked out, trying to get his feet under him, and let go with one hand and flung them off.
“Hold him—knock him out if you have to—”
“You touch me, I’ll kill you,” he roared. “God damn you—”
“Oh, Christ,” the man in the saddle said. “Another of those fucking Italians. Who are the rest of them?”
Frederick slapped futilely at the hands dragging him away, pinioning him. Farther away a voice said, “Oh, God, I think this one’s a Templar.”
Frederick stopped fighting.
“Where’s that torch?” the rider bawled.
“Let me go.”
“You aren’t going anywhere. You’re under arrest.”
Light showed, a glimmer, but the torch rolled and the fire spread around the head, bright yellow. Frederick took a deep breath and stood up, easing his weight off the arms holding him. One of them twisted his hand up between his shoulders. “You make a move and I’ll gut you.”
Three big men in half-armor stood around him, and another sat on the horse
; two more were looking over the bodies of the dead. The captain, on the horse, stared at Frederick and frowned.
“I wouldn’t like to be you if you’ve killed a Templar.”
Frederick said, “I wouldn’t like to be the Templars if that’s a Templar. Let me go or I’ll hang you all.”
The man holding him wrenched his arm, and Frederick yelped. The captain suddenly leaped off his horse. “Let him go, Raymond, for the love of—” The captain went to his knees. “It’s the Emperor.”
Raymond’s breathing stopped. He jerked his hands away from Frederick and stepped back. Wobbling, tasting blood in his mouth, Frederick looked all around— four men knelt around him, and the two inspecting the bodies were turning to stare. He limped over toward the dead man they had called a Templar. His legs throbbed and ached all over. The two men among the bodies knelt when he approached.
“Bring me a torch.”
In the silence he heard the horse sigh; one of the men rushed up with the torch, and he looked down at the corpse in front of him. He’d never seen this man before; he wore plain brown wool. “Is that a Templar?”
The young man kneeling in the street shook his head.
“You said it was before.”
“I was mistaken, my—Your Majesty.”
“Find out.”
He took the torch and went on to Hasan’s body. He was dead; his white robes were soggy with blood. Beyond him lay another dead Frank. Were there four or five? He couldn’t remember. The man he’d stabbed in the face was gone—and the man he’d jumped on. Probably five. He limped back toward the silent watch.
“Give me your horse. I’m late for dinner.”
The captain held out the reins. Frederick leaned on the saddle, trying to get his strength up. Hot rage bubbled up through him, and he turned to the captain. “If you see any more Templars tonight, tell them if they think they paid for the one they killed, they didn’t.” He dragged himself into the saddle and fumbled with his foot for the stirrup. “But see that they do.”
“They weren’t Templars,” the captain said. “We were—”
Frederick spun the horse and whipped it with the end of the rein into a dead run. His arm burned from the elbow to the wrist, and he could barely close his fingers over the rein. flay them, I’ll fry them. He swiped the tears out of his eyes and galloped through the middle of Acre toward his house.
* * *
The Templars’ audience was at Sext the next day; the Grand Master brought the news of their arrival up to Frederick, who was sitting on the balcony, looking out toward the sea. Blazing on the water, bouncing back from the dun rocks of the shore, the sunlight cooked the slash on his forearm and made it hurt, and when the Grand Master appeared he didn’t turn his head at all.
“The Grand Master of the Order of the Temple of Jerusalem—”
Frederick glared at the distant water.
“Sire,” the Grand Master said. “Shall I tell them you’re too busy?”
“Oh, no. I shall be most, most pleased to see him. Them. Is the Hospitaller with him?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any proof those were Templars.”
“No.” The Grand Master moved around in front of him. “Where are the Saracens?”
“Burying Hasan. I have guards in the next room.”
I should kill them all now. Lock the gates, trap them inside, and pitch them one by one into a cauldron full of boiling oil. Hasan was with me so much, I can’t get used to his not being here, and he is dead now. I should kill them all.
“Send them up.”
“Sire.” The Grand Master knelt and looked earnestly up at him. “If you don’t feel up to it, tell me. I’ll send them away. Why should you treat them like—like allies when they—”
“Send them up, Hermann. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with them.” He smiled. “Which they know now.”
The Grand Master got up and went out. Frederick touched the scabs on his face—Theophano had said he looked terrible. Guy Embriaco had nearly fallen over when he walked in for dinner. Tucking his hand into his sleeve, he watched the little boats sculling around the busy harbor, carrying goods and people from galley to galley. Jaffa . . .
“Sire.”
He lifted one hand and let it drop, acknowledging them, and the three Grand Masters and their attendants came out onto the balcony. The two Frenchmen looked pudgy from good Eastern living, younger and less soldierlike than Hermann. The herald was prating. For a moment, while they shuffled around and got themselves arranged in order, Frederick could not move or think or speak—they tried to kill me, they killed Hasan— Abruptly the stiffness in his body eased, and he smiled and acknowledged their bows with a gesture.
“Gentlemen. This will be brief because I know that you have no wish to endanger your immortal souls through overmuch contact with me.” And here, name of a name, came the Patriarch of Jerusalem, panting from a long run up the stairs. Frederick bowed to him. “Good father.”
“Sire—”
“Please. Sit.” He sat. “Hermann, send pages for refreshments, if you will. Gentlemen, may I compliment you on the wealth and splendor of your city.”
The Grand Master of the Templars, heavy-jowled and pig-eyed, sank onto a couch. “Your Majesty does us honor. We all wish to offer our apologies on behalf of the city for the outrage Your Majesty suffered—”
“Oh.” Another gesture, which made his forearm hurt. “A minor detail. Not every city is Palermo.”
He smiled, and the knights all smiled back, uneasy. The sun made them squint. They were facing it, and he had his back to it; the Patriarch lifted one hand to shield his face.
“Gentlemen, we have discussed before the military problems at hand. Clearly, if I were to assume command myself, nobody would be happy.” He smiled again, amazed that it was so easy. “I am taking steps to arrange the command so that no one will be forced to take the orders of an outcast of the Church. In addition, I will rely on your judgment in the selection of a liaison staff.”
The Templar frowned and leaned forward. “Sire, we were—” The pages came, their slippers muffled on the carpets over the balcony stone, and the voice died. Frederick watched them grab for the honey cakes, for the sweet Sicilian wine, the gooey candy from Damascus and Cairo. That was how they’d gotten their high color. Chastity, poverty, and obedience. When the pages brought over the golden trays he took a cup of sherbet and waved away the cakes.
“Rich food disagrees with me.” He watched the Grand Master start. “So. If you would assume the responsibilities of liaison and organization of the local armies and the Patriarch, of course, for the local clergy—I would be most grateful. And of course this would ease the burden on me and my staff considerably.”
He looked around, eyebrows cocked, nodding, and one by one the startled faces in front of him began nodding too, as if he’d started a wind that set them all in motion. They’d come here with demands, he was sure of it, and now he was ending the audience before it had quite begun. The Hospitaller opened his mouth.
“So.” Frederick leaped up. “I thank you for your cooperation.”
They all had to rise, naturally, and he went on, “I will leave you to discuss the details with Sir Hermann, rather than endanger you any more by my presence. Thank you again for your forbearance. Feel free to sample the arts of my kitchens. My friends’ kitchens.” He smiled and walked off the balcony into the cool of the inside room.
“Sire,” the Patriarch called, but the Grand Master’s voice started up at once, drowning him out. Corso and two knights were in the dim room he’d entered, and without a word they rose and followed him through the next room, where he began to laugh. Muffled, the laughter came out like choking.
“Sire—”
“Corso, did you talk to What’s-his-name—Lothair—about the guards at night?”
“Yes, Sire.” Corso rushed up to open the next door for him. “Marino sent me to tell you that there’s a . . . messenger in your r
oom.”
“A messenger.” He turned, frowning, halfway through the little sunlit room. “From whom?”
Hands locked behind his back, his face straight, Corso only shrugged.
“Christian or Moslem?”
Corso said, “I didn’t see him, Sire.”
“Oho.” Frederick headed for the far door. “Go down and see if Theophano wants anything.”
“Sire.” Corso raced away.
Marino would never let a messenger into Frederick’s chambers unless he was far more important than the Templars; it might be the man from al-Kamil. He passed a herd of serving girls, who prostrated themselves neatly out of his path, and cut through his pages’ quarters, still trailing the knights. But al-Kamil wouldn’t have heard that he was in Acre yet. Unless he had spies, which he did, of course. Three pages nearly leaped out of their untidy hose at the sight of him; he plunged on. The first of his rooms was empty, and in the second two secretaries copied madly.
“Where’s Marino?”
The secretaries leaped up and knelt beside their desks. “Inside, Sire.”
He headed for the nearest door, and one of the knights raced around to open it for him. The silks rustled; a sudden reek of jasmine reached him like a wave. Before him the wide, tiled room, filled with sunlight, stretched on empty for yards, except— “Sire.”
Marino came forward, and behind him, standing quietly behind a chair, stood a Moslem in a gray cloak, like a habit in Holy Orders. Frederick brushed off Marino’s quick explanations. “Thank you, I know.” He jabbed a thumb at the door. “The knights too.”
The lean man in the gray cloak came around his chair, smiling in his dark beard. Around his waist was a red sash, and in it, half-hidden, a red-hilted yataghan. Frederick said in Arabic, “My respects to your master, and God grant him long life.”
The man bowed. “Sultan, he begs God the same wishes for yourself. I am come with these words from the Sheikh of the Mountain, the Lord of Alamut and Master of the Hashishiyyun. God be with the Sultan from the West in his endeavors, and the Sheikh most humbly begs to be counted among the friends of the Sultan, close as those dwelling in his house.”
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