Frederick drew a deep breath. Against those bloated men up on the balcony he could use this man’s master and the rest of their order like an ax. He clapped his hands and a page bolted in.
“Sherbet,” Frederick said. “Rosewater for the messenger of the Hashishiyyun.”
The lean man jerked a smile onto his face; Frederick sat down.
“I am most impressed by your order, Emir.”
“Sultan, you do me honor. I am only one of the lowest of us.”
Pages came in with more gold trays, this time bearing sherbet and rosewater and light almond-paste cookies. Frederick washed his hands and dried them on a cloth one page held out. “It is I who am honored that your master would send to me in token of his friendship an initiate into the mysteries. And is not the lowest of the Hashishiyyun an emir among ordinary men?”
The lean man smiled. His hands moved lightly over the cookies. “Am I among ordinary men? My master says that I must say to you, Sultan, that of all the lords of the earth, you alone so stir his imagination that he would ask to be taken under your protection.”
“So be it,” Frederick said mildly. “You might inform him that I have so little attachment to these who mouth the pieties of my religion while bearing swords in the land where Christ walked that I would place him and his above even those who strut so confidently around the streets of this city.”
Frederick smiled; the Assassin smiled. For a moment, sipping sherbet, they sat in silence, while Frederick tried to think of suitable presents and phrases. But the Assassin put down his cup and said, “My master wishes you to know that it is not his habit to extend tokens of friendship in place of friendship itself. My business is concluded, except for one detail, and I shall take leave. Acre is not open to me and mine.” He stood up, and Frederick stood up, surprised.
“If your master is so superior to tokens, any I gave him would be an insult. Let him know that in Palestine and Syria I will serve him as a friend should.”
“Excellent.” The Assassin headed for the door. “As for the detail, Sultan, it is this: The Templars, as you know, covet your life.”
“I’m glad to know that.” He grimaced.
“And the Hashishiyyun offer to do all in our considerable power to see that you are forewarned of the attempts of the swine against you and to protect you against them.”
Some of his amazement must have shown on his face; the Assassin smiled, bowed, and left without a word. Frederick sat down. His heart beat excitedly, unevenly. That could mean anything—to a Christian, nothing, without sworn oaths or an exchange of gifts or hostages. But the Assassins had built themselves a reputation in Syria precisely because they kept their word, however lightly it seemed to be given, and a messenger had come so far, so quickly, when Acre was not safe for Assassins.
Al-Kamil didn’t like Assassins. Oh, well, one couldn’t really expect to please everyone. Pages rushed in and neatened up, chattering softly to themselves, ignoring him. A pair of soft boy’s hands reached out, took his cup, and replaced it, full. I love pear sherbet. Outside, in one of the other rooms, men spoke, but he couldn’t hear the words. I am the protector of the Assassins, who in return protect me. It would be interesting to see how they went about it. He couldn’t calm the frothy excitement in his mind; the whole thing was so enchanting.
“Sire—”
“Yes, Corso.”
“Sir Hermann wishes—”
“Send him in.” It was a pity he couldn’t share this excitement with the Grand Master, who would— “Hermann. How are our piggy friends upstairs?”
The Grand Master, smiling, headed for a chair and settled himself into it. “They don’t understand how you managed to give them what they’d thought they already had, thank them for accepting it, and leave without hearing what they came to discuss. No, thank you,” to a page, who took off the cups and sherbet and cookies.
“They’re French, not Sicilian. What’s the news?”
The Grand Master sighed heavily and fiddled with the embroidery on his sleeves. “Not good. Last night several bands of al-Kamil’s men raided Christian settlements, burned, looted, and got off completely without pursuit. All the local lords are squabbling over who’s responsible for what.”
“Naturally.” Frederick took a mouthful of pear sherbet and let it lie on his tongue a moment before swallowing it. The warmth of his mouth released all the subtle flavor. “Do you think it would be worth the effort necessary to coordinate their defenses?”
The Grand Master made a face and looked off. Around his gnarled hands the lace curled limply, soaked from the heat. Finally he said, “I’m sure you already have an opinion.”
“I do. Want to hear it?”
“Of course.”
“The only reason the Moslems have never managed to wipe out all of Outremer’s defenses—except Acre, which is reasonably defensible, and Beirut and Tripoli and Antioch—is because all Outremer’s defenses are never in the same place, and the Moslems can’t find them. Sufficient?”
“Sufficient. You’ve only been here two days, though, don’t—”
“I’ve been reading before bed. In short, Hermann, my son’s little kingdom is mythically defended.”
“Did you expect more, Sire?”
“No. The whole construction is against nature. I suppose I could stir up a little amusement bringing them to book over it—”
“Sire—”
“But I tried that on Cyprus and got my imperial rump burned for it. I don’t want to stay in Acre.”
“Beirut and Antioch are out of the question.”
“Actually I was thinking of Jaffa.”
“Good God.” The Grand Master leaped up. “Jaffa is in ruins.”
“Quite. Fortunately we have lots of able-bodied men sitting around here doing nothing except get in trouble. I did find out, you know, why the watch called me ‘another fucking Italian.’ Jaffa has an excellent harbor and is much closer to Jerusalem than any of the major centers of Outremer. Also, it’s not in the hands of a baron. We are going to refortify it.” He sipped sherbet.
The Grand Master actually smiled; he enjoyed strategic work. “When shall we start?”
“As soon as I hear from al-Kamil. Incidentally, there was a message in from Brindisi. Rinaldo has messed things up and the Pope is preparing to invade Sicily. How does that strike you?”
The old man’s face tightened. “Invade Sicily.”
Frederick nodded, unblinking.
“Surely the reports are wrong.”
“On the contrary, if anything, they’ve underestimated the extent of the operation.”
The Grand Master sat down again, his elbows on his wide-spread knees. For a moment he looked nowhere, his eyes moving blindly. “The Holy See has always sworn to protect the holdings of Crusaders against any kind of attack.”
“Come now, Hermann. This Crusader is excommunicate.”
“By custom you are relieved of your sins when you go on crusade.”
“Well, yes, but custom and this particular Pope—”
“There must have been provocation.”
“Rinaldo invaded the March of Ancona, which belongs to me anyway and was stolen. Of course there was provocation. I am the provocation. He hates me and he will do anything he can to eliminate me, root and branch. They are moving my children from Andria to Palermo.”
“He was misled.”
Frederick sighed. “All right. He was misled.” He could almost feel the misery of the old man, radiating in the hot, still air. Suddenly he regretted having brought the whole thing up. “Hermann. I’m sorry. It’s true, but there was provocation, and after all he’s only a man, like me. I’d have done the same thing. Suppose you—”
“He’s the Holy Father, he isn’t supposed to—”
“Don’t interrupt me. Go down and draw up plans for transporting everything to Jaffa. You’d better get hold of Enrico somehow—I don’t relish being pinned up against that coast without some way to get off. And we’ll probably
need supplies while we’re there.” He stood up and started to take off his coat. “For ten days at least, until we get some kind of commissary set up.”
“Yes, Sire.” The Grand Master was on his feet, solid and thick-boned, like a knight in some German legend. “As you wish, Sire.”
“I’m sorry.”
The Grand Master bowed, turned and left. Frederick fought down a surge of irritation. The old man just wouldn’t learn, wouldn’t realize—throwing off his coat, he yelled for pages to bring him fresh clothes.
All the next week he heard reports from the north, the south, and the east. On Saturday Balian of Sidon came back from Antioch with pages of reports on defenses, attitudes, strategic postures and spies’ findings about Damascus; in the afternoon, after lunch with local dignitaries all wanting something, he saw ambassadors from Beirut, confirming things Balian had already said, assuring him of the faith and good fellowship of John d’Ibelin. All evening long he worked on a letter to al-Kamil.
“Being Emperor is hard work,” he said to Theophano.
She laughed.
“It is. And the trouble is that I have to be Emperor all the time.”
“Shall I stroke your brow and whisper soft reassurances?”
“I’d prefer you to stroke a little lower.”
Afterward, lying in the moonlight under the round window, he remembered the Assassins’ promise. It would be fun to go in disguise into the slums of Acre. Fulk and Ezzo could go with him, and they could dice and drink and make rude remarks about everything and everybody and shock the natives. Theophano, lying half across his shoulder, murmured in her sleep, and her dark hair shifted on the tumbled silk of the bed. He pulled the cover up over her waist. In Palermo . . .
He slept and dreamed of being a little boy in Palermo, stealing oranges from the street vendors, chasing half-wild chickens into the alleys full of trash. Strange music wound itself into the dream, wild, rhythmic music, unlike the Moslem or the Christian; in the dream the music stirred him inutterably, as if he heard it throughout his body. Struggling up toward the surface of consciousness, he heard the music sink down to an ordinary lute’s ordinary tunes, and a sense of loss nearly made him weep. When he opened his eyes he saw Theophano sitting naked on a stool under the window, playing a lute.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Arabic, I think.”
Part French, part Syrian, a hybrid, strange . . . “Did you play something else?”
She shook her head, unsmiling. Her eyes watched him through the shadows. The moonlight turned her skin colorless and cold, pale, like an ice statue. Fascinated and vaguely frightened, he watched her until the music and his heavy eyes let him doze off again, and in his sleep he searched everywhere for the strange, heavy music he had heard before.
“Did you sleep well?”
“No.”
“I know. You had bad dreams—you woke me up once. You were trying to say something, and your eyes were open, but you were asleep.”
“Oh.”
“I knew you were asleep, but your eyes were open. I didn’t want to wake you up, I was afraid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What did you dream of?”
“I . . . don’t remember.”
Of a forest full of thorny trees, in the middle of, which he was a prisoner, in a cage of thorns, while unnatural beasts circled and circled, watching him, hungry.
“They say you’re going to Jaffa.”
“Yes. Do you want to come?”
“If you want me to.”
“Come.”
She hugged him, and he pressed his face against her smooth shoulder. The indistinct horror of the dream was fading; he heard pages in the other room, waiting to come in and start his official day. Spreading honey on a biscuit, he slid it into Theophano’s mouth and yelled for Corso. She pulled the covers over her and winked at him. He laughed. It was easier with her there, everything was easier. Do I love her? I must. This is the way— Corso came in, with the other pages, and in between bites of biscuit and honey and sips of milk he let them dress him and went out into the antechamber.
A crowd of petitioners surged around him, and his Saracens jumped to hold them back. Good God—the animal faces of the dream came back to him; for a moment he paused on the marble threshold, unsure. But Fulk came forward with a handful of documents, and three secretaries were standing with letters to be signed. Come, come, Sire. Emperors don’t . . . He reached for the papers in Fulk’s hand and listened to petitions while he read. The first two petitions, by custom, he granted—a pension, a reinstatement at court—and the rest of them he sent off home, to come back in the morning. With them gone, the room seemed bigger.
“Ezzo, how are the stores?”
“Running out, Sire.” Ezzo slouched against a wall. “Do I recite?”
“God, no.” He gestured to the light screens blocking the windows and a page trotted over to remove them. Another ran by with an armload of fresh flowers for the other rooms. “Find out where Enrico is, he’s supposed to be supplying us.”
Fulk said quietly, “We’ve questioned all the watch again, and none of them will admit—”
“Forget that. I have proof. Unsuitable for a court, but proof. Conrad.”
Conrad of Hohenlohe rushed up, glowing. “When do we go to Jaffa?”
“Soon enough. What are you doing back?”
“My tour’s over, Sire.”
“Oh. Ezzo, it’s your turn. Take some troops and ride around the countryside. No trouble, do you hear me?”
“Sire.” Ezzo slid away from the wall and left.
Fulk said, “I hope you aren’t intending any more forays alone at night.”
Ayub had shut the door after Ezzo; he came back, frowning at Fulk’s remark. Frederick said. “Why?”
“Well.” Fulk crossed his arms over his chest. “There have been four men killed in Acre, at night, by unknown assailants, since the—since you were nearly murdered. Three of them had red hair.”
Conrad looked over. “Coincidence.”
Fulk didn’t even bother to look at him. Along the walls the three Saracens scowled. Fulk said. “Red hair isn’t common in Acre. Three out of four is . . . not probable.”
Frederick bit his lip. “Well, damn them. That’s sheer waste.”
Surprised, Fulk laughed, and one by one the Saracens grinned. Frederick said, “No, I won’t go drifting around alone at night. Yes, Marino.”
Marino came through the door two steps, bowed, and said, “Sire, there are several envoys here. Do you want me to arrange audiences?”
“Are they important?”
“No, Sire. Probably petitioners of a more exalted sort.”
“Schedule them for the day after tomorrow. Maybe I won’t be here. Conrad, you go with Fulk and try to find out who’s killing red-headed men. Marino, send those charters for Cyprus down to me in the garden.”
“Sire.”
They all bowed, and he went back in to Theophano to change out of his gown into a short coat and hose.
The garden reminded him so much of Sicily that sometimes he couldn’t stand even being there. With a secretary shuffling along behind him reading, he walked up and down the tiny pebble paths, staring at flowers. They are killing men because they look like me. His hair swung in his eyes and he studied it. The sunlight turned it bright red. The peach trees were ripe and he picked a peach and ate it, told the secretary to bend over and used his back for a desk to sign a charter giving himself the right to tax the entire population of Cyprus in King Henri’s name.
“Lord.”
Ayub came down a side path; the pebbles crunched under his boots. Seeing him doing what Hasan had done still jarred Frederick. He thrust the pen at the secretary. “Yes?”
“There is a man here—” Ayub smiled. “Come see.”
Frederick took three steps after him, bewildered, and caught sight of the visitor under an apricot tree, sitting on a bench. He stopped dead and stared. The man rose, brushing li
ttle curled leaves off his lap, and started forward, smiling.
“Dawud,” Frederick yelled. He ran past Ayub, who bounded to one side. The other man ducked swiftly out from under the apricot tree.
“Sultan, I thought perhaps to find you—”
Frederick grabbed him by the arms and swung him around. “Al-Kamil sent you? I never thought he’d—I expected—”
Fakhr-ad-Din flung his head back and roared with laughter. “I insisted. Ah. You look healthy. You should stay in Syria:” His arms locked around Frederick in a strong hug. “What happened to your face?”
“I fell down the stairs. You remember Ayub.”
“Of course. But where is Hasan?”
Ayub murmured, “Emir.” Frederick turned to look at him.
“As long as you remember rank, why don’t you send for some of those infidel pages and get us some . . . Dawud.” Frederick swung around. “I thought he’d send one of his damned doctors with the . . .”
Fakhr-ad-Din laughed again. “I assured him that I would talk philosophy and mathematics at you until your head turned inside out. I’m supposed to delay you.”
“That’s not nice.” Frederick waved away Ayub and the secretary. “So he hasn’t made up his mind, after all those promises.”
“God’s most holy name,” Fakhr-ad-Din said mildly. “If he simply handed you what you asked for, Islam would howl for his head. To be serious, I’m also to prepare you in case he can offer you nothing at all.”
“Oh, really.” Frederick sank down on his heels next to the bench under the apricot tree. “Go on, sit down, I know you’ve got weak knees. Don’t try to fool me, Dawud. I’m as aware of his situation as he is of mine. Incidentally, is he aware of mine?”
“Of course. If there is— Oh.” Fakhr-ad-Din inhaled strongly, so that his nostrils flared. He wore his beard bristly, like a desert Arab, and above it his sharp features always reminded Frederick of an old Jewish philosopher he’d known in his childhood. “I take it you’re wondering if your envoy has been granted an audience.”
“I assume he’s been granted one.” Frederick glanced around for Ayub, but he wasn’t in sight.
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